Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 51, Decatur, Adams County, 6 March 1896 — Page 8

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CHAPTER I. I, Sir John Priestly. Knight and M. D.. of Berkeley street, Mayfair, have been asked by one of the most charming of my patients to extract from my diary portions which refer to a mysterious drama which took place in 1872, and in which 1 played a small but important part. I have no hesitation in granting my fair patient’s request, paraphrasing rather than merely transcribing the contents of my note book, “Beg pardon, sir; where to?” “Where to? Oh. anywhere—the first station you come to! No, to St. Paneras,” I replied, and was about to step into the hansom, upon which my traveling bag had been deposited, when a detaining hand was laid heavily upon my shoulder. I turned, and faced a man, tall, swarthy, slightly built, and elegantly dressed. His eyes were fixed with a curious expres- _ sion upon my face,—i —— “Dr, Priestly, I believe,” he said, speaking with a slight foreign accent, I nodded. “And you are about to start upon a Journey?” he continued. “Muy I ask if it is of very great importance?” “Os no importance whatever.” I replied; “I was merely going away somewhere for a few days' rest and change.” “That is fortunate, since you will have less scruple in staying. I require your immediate attention for a case of urgent danger.” , I looked at him more carefully, and noticed that he seemed much agitated, yet he was a man of stern cast of countenance. My hesitation seemed to trouble him, for be again put his trembling hand upon my arm. “There is no time to lose,” he said; “while we are standing here the patient may die. Pray come!” Then, taking the management of affairs into his own hands, he ordered my man servant to remove my luggage from the cab, hurried me into another, took bis seat beside me and we rattled away. The Whole affair had taken place so rapidly that the cab had covered at least a mile before I began to wonder what it all meant. The cab stopped at the top of Park lane; we alighted, and walked on. Presently we entered a side street, and stopped before a door, which my guide open with a latch key. We were now in comparative darkness. I could make no note whatever of the surroundings, but I followed quickly upon the footsteps of my guide, and was finally ushered into a large room furnished as a boudoir in the extreme of modern fashion. Upon a couch lay wliat appeared to be the lifeless body of dressed in evening attire. By his side was a lady, also in evening dress, kneeling upon the floor, her face buried in her hands. “Madam,” said my guide, “1 have brought a surgeon; will you have the great goodness to retire?” Sobbing bitterly, the lady rose, while the gentleman led her to a d'oor concealed by curtains of pale blue satin, and when she disappeared hg returned to me. “That is your patient, doctor,” said he; “save his life, and you will be made a comparatively rich man.” I proceeded to make a careful examina- j tion. The patient was a powerfully built i man of four or five aid twenty, with a ! strikingly handsome cast of countenance. His shirt front was suffused, with blood, issuing from a wound in the breast—an •• old flesh wound, which, after partially healing, ■ had suddenly reopened. “The man is in mortal danger,” I said. ■ “But he may recover?” “There is one way of treating the case, which would mean either life or death.” “Are you willing to try that method?” “Well. 1 will undertake if.” “Good! Now, to begin with, he must be removed. If he remains in this house, not all the skill in Christendom will save his life.” The first thing to be done was to dress the wound. In the course of the operation the gentleman recovered consciousness. As his eyes rolled slo.wly around the room he muttered feebly: “Constance, where are you?” Before he could say more my ■pompan ion stepped quickly (o his side and whis- . pered something in Ins ear. At this the man groanqd., turned his head wearily upon the pillow, and closed his eyes. “My dear doctor,” said my guide, “while you have been working I have been thinking. 1 have sketched in my mind our plan of action, and it must be followed or nothing can be done. For the present, then, yjur work is finished. Go home amt wait for your patient, who will be removed to your house.” “To my house?” _ “The whole arrangement,” he—contiirned, not heeding my interruption, “must be carried out with the utmost secrecy. Not a soul must see the patient carried from here —not a soul must see him enter your doors. I will arrange for the secrecy here—you must arrange for it on your side. Oblige me by making thq, ro quisite preparations, and? for tlje present, good-by.” Seeing that I was dismissed, I.prepared to leave the room. 1 was reeoaducted. down a flight of stairs, along a dark passage, and finally was shown again into the street. My first move was to hail a hansom and drive at once to my house, my next to inform my servants tha't. ottthg to sudden a and unexpected work I should not be able to pay my visit to the country. At 4I o’clock that nuzht ovarvthina was

in readiness for the patient’s reception. My servants were all in bed and sleeping soundly—all except my man Schmitz, on whom I could rely, when I was startled by the faint ringing of my door bell. I answered it, and a figure hurriedly entered. A lady, clothed from head to foot in black and heavily veiled. She was trembling violently, and her dress was saturated with the heavily falling rain. “Sir,” she said, hurriedly, “I wish to speak to you. if you are Dr. Priestly.” Without a word I led the way into my study. She quietly raised her veil. Then I saw that my visitor was a young girl, about 20 years of age. Her skin was as white as alabaster, her hair as black as jet, while her eyes, large and lustrous, were fixed upon my face with a look which went to my very soul. “Sit/’ she said sweetly, “I came to look at your face. lam glad that I came. The sight of you gives me courag"'.” “Indeed!” I replied; “I do not understand.” “I will explain, sir. You are about to receive into your care a patient, a young man who is suffering from a dangerous wound. I have come to tell you, sir, that that young man’s life is more precious to me than my own; that if he dies, his innocent blood will be the stain upon me which will drag me to my grave, and—and,” she added in trepidation, “I wish you to receive this, and also my solemn assurance that the day the gentleman is pronounced out of danger, I will make you a rich man!” a She held a pocketbook toward me. I saw that it was filled with notes. I motioned it back. ’ v“If you will permit me to kiss your hand,” I said, “and hear your name, that is all I ask.” At this peculiar request she drew herself up, and a strange look passed over her face, but after a moment’s hesitation she extended her left hand. I raised the fingers and touched them with my lips. “Your name is ” “The Duchess d’Azzeglio.” “Married?” “Yes. married,” she repeated; and as she spoke the words I felt unaccountably troubled and disappointed. What did it all mean? Was I mad, or dreaming? It seemed that I was both, for one look into that face had changed my whole nature. And who was this man whom I was about to receive under my care? was he her husband—or—but no, not even in thought could I couple evil with such a face as that. I rubbed my eyes to make sure of my wakefulness; I turned again to speak to the lady—she was gone. I ran to the door and opened it; there was no sign of a soul. More mystified than ever, I returned to my room, and the first thing I saw was the pocketbook lying upon my table. 1 put it safely away under lock and key, and then, strangely agitated, I sat down to await' the arrival, of my mysterious patient. Here for the present must end the transcript from Dr. Priestly’s note book. It is now necessary to chronicle the events which culminated in the mysterious episode of the wounded man. CHAPTER 11. ’ Three years before the occurrence of the event chronicled in the preceding chapter, a lady was seated in a richly furnished dressing room in a house in Portland Place. It was 1 o’clock in the morning. The lady, who was about 70 years of age, held a letter in her left hand, which hung at her side, and her whole attitude betokened expectancy. At last there Was a light tap upon the door and a looked cautiously into the room, and crossing'it, sunk upon the floor at the lady’s feet. “Dear grandmamma,” she said, “it is so late for you to be up. When Osborne told me you wished to see me I could scarcely believe it. Is anything the matter?” “Nothing is the matter that need alarm you, Constance. Why are you home so early ?” “The epuntess was indisposed, apd wished to leave."’so, of course, she brought me home. Grandma, that letter is from Frank, ifi.it not?” “Yes, dear.” “And it was to speak about that—that you determined to sit up until ’1 returned ■from the ball?” “Yes.” “Well,” continued the girl, growing more nervous as she proceeded, “I had better tell you at once that Frank was at the ball to-night, and—and he proposed to me again . This time the old lady did not speak, but her face grew hard as iron. The girl trembled, noticing thel change. “Ah, do not be angry, dear,” she said, showering warm kisses on the withered hands. “Do not blame Frank. He loves me, and I—oh. I love him so much; if you persist in keeping us apart, I shall not care to live!” !“ I’his is folly, Constance,” returned the ord lady, gravely. ,-■■ “That was what you said last year, grandma, and then I thought you might ,be right; 1 did not know. And since you wished it so very much, I promised you that 1 would try to Cease to care for Frank. Well, 1 have tried; for one whole year I have neither seen him nor heard from him, but when he came into the room to-night I, felt that never, until my dying dajy s HEpaJH I love another man. Grandma, telrrt® why it is ydu are so obdurate. Do you think Frank is un«

“Married?”

worthy? Do you not see that you breaking his heart—and mine?” “Yours? Why should your heart breaks What have you in the world to wish fori You have a title which moat girls would give their souls for and you have all my wealth!” “Wealth—a title—what are they without happiness! I tell you, grandma, I would rather be the poorest beggar than lose my Frank." “Then this is your final decision; you are determined to marry Frank Howarth?” “Yes.” “Despite all my care and devotion, In spite of all the money I have endowed you with; despite the fact that all my life I have, been working to secure your happiness, you refuse to grant the only request I have ever made.” “Oh, do not say so! I would do anything in the world but that." “Anything but that! What other request have I ever made or am likely to make? Well, the matter must rest so, 1 suppose. Good-night.” Slowly and deliberately she rose, hei left hand grasping the letter with a cruel, venomous grip. For a moment the gir! watched her with streaming eyes and wildly beating heart; then the old lady stooped to kiss her, but her kiss was as cold as ice. At 10 o’clock the next morning Mr* Meason took her place in the breakfast room at 6 Portland place with as calm an air as if nothing whatever had occurred to disturb her serenity on the night before. When at length Lady Constance entered her face was pale and her eyes showed signs of recent tears. It was the dreariest of breakfasts; scarcely a word was spoken by either of the ladies present. When the meal was over, and the servants had left the room, Lady Constance walked over to where the old lady sat and knelt beside her chair. “My child,” she said, “you have done of your own free will the deed I would have shielded you from. You have laid beneath your own feet a mine which may one day destroy you.” “Grandma,” cried the girl in terror, “wkat do you mean?” “I mean that the day you marry Frank Howarth all happiness for you will end. He has his own family traits. Had you been a different girl, had you been cold, hard-hearted and callous, I should have given a very different answer that day when this young man asked for your hand. I should have married you to him, and through your agency your mother might have been avenged. But I saw that, despite my stern training, you had grown into a tender, timid girl, capable of loving very deeply, and, seeing this, I knew that your cousin Frank was the last man on whom you should set your heart.” “You disliked him so much even than,’ said the girl, reproachfully. “Do you expect to find a fig upon a pear tree or a rose upon a thistle? He is a Howarth; that is enough.” There was a knock at the door; the footman entered, bearing a card, upon which the old lady read: “Captain Frank Howarth.” “I will come to the drawing room,” she said, and the footman retired. Constance leaped to her feet, her face turning from red to deathly white: her hands, which trembled violently, eagerlj clutched her companion’s dress. “Grandma,” she cried, “what will you say ?” “If I ssnd him away your heart will break; if he remains”—the old lady sighed heavily—“ Well, perhaps it is better to enjoy a few’ hours of happiness,” she continued, “since the issue must be the same.” With these words she left the room. Fully an hour passed, when the door again opened, and this time the figure of a young-man appeared. He stretched forth his arms. “Constance," he said, softly. With a glad cry Constance fluttered across the room and fell upon his breast. “One hour, Connie,” said he; “but you were waiting for me, my love, so it seemed to you like three.” “Now you are laughing. If you do not become serious and tell me what I wish to know Ishall go to grandma. She is so strange; I cannot understand her, Frank. Sometimes I think she hates me.” “Yes, she is very singular,” returned the young man, gravely, “but she does not hate’ you, darling 1 .” “Then why is she afraid to see mt happy, Frank—do you know?” “Yes; but the story is a very sad one. Why should our happiness be clouded at the outset ?” (To be continued.) Convinced. o It is said that although the celebrate advocate, Lotd Erskine, was sometimes jocular and occasionally a little unfair In his treatment of witnesses, no man was better able than he to make them realize the foolishness or utter irrelevance of their replies without giving offense. At one time a witness obstinately refused to be sworn in the usual manner, but stated that although he would not “kiss the book,” he would “hold up his hand" and swear. Erskine asked him what reason he had for preferring such an eccentric way to the ordinary method. “It is written In the book of tions,” replied the obstinate man, “th* the angel standing on the sea ‘held up his hand.’ ” “That is very true,” said Erskine, with a smile, “but I can hardly see how that applies to your case. In the first place, you certainly are not an angel. And tn the second place you cannot tell, you have no means of knowing, how the angel would have sworn if he had stood on dry ground as you do.” There was no flippancy or irreverence in Erskine’s tone, and after a moment’s reflection the stubborn witness yielded the point, impressed by the advocate’s common-sense view of the matter, and took the oath in the -usual manner. Oak Stain. Equal parts of potash and pearl ash, two ounces each to about one quart ol water, give a good oak stain, Use carefully, as it will blister tne nands. Ad/ water if the color be too deep. After several years of tireless, warfare, and the payment of many thousands of dollars in bounties, the farmers of Berlen County, Michigan, have given up fighting th* English DMt

LIKE SHEEP ASTRAY. AND REV. DR. TALMAGE SAYS IT MEANS EVERYBODY. The First Half of the Text la an Indictment, but the Last Opena the Door Widely to Heaven—A Glad Gospel Sound at the Nntion’a Capital. Sermon from the Capital. The gospel sends out its gladdest sound In this sermon from the nation’s capital. Immense throngs pack and overflow the church to which Dr. Talmage preaches twice each Sabbath. His text this morn ing was Isaiah liii., 0: “All we, like sheep, have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way, and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all." Once more I ring the old gospel bell. The first half of my next text is an indictment, “All we, like sheep, have gone astray.” Someone says: “Can’t you drop that first word? That is too general; that sweeps too great a circle." Some man rises in the audience, and he looks over on the opposite side of the house and says: “There is a blasphemer, and I understand how he has gone astray, and there in another part of the house is a defaulter, and he has gone astray, and there is an impure person, and he has gone astray.” Sit down, my brother, and look at home. My text takes us all in. It starts behind the pulpit, sweeps the circuit of the room and comes back to the point where it started, when it says, “All we, like sheep, have gone astray." I can very easily understand why Martin Luther threw up his hands after he had found the Bible and cried out, “Oh, my sins, my sins!” and why the publican, according to the custom to this day in the east, when they have any great grief, began to beat himself and cry as he smote upon his “God be merciful to me, a sinner.” I was, like many of you, brought up in the country, and I know some of the habits of sheep, and how they get astray, and what my text means when it says, “All we, like sheep, have gone astray.” Sheep get astray in two ways—either by trying to get into other pasture or from being scared by the dogs. In the former way some of us got astray. We | thought the religion of Jesus Christ put; us on short commons. We thought there I was better pasturage somewhere else. We thought if we could only lie down on the banks of a distant stream or under great oaks on the other side of some hill we might be better fed. We wanted other pasturage than that which God, through Jesus Christ, gave our soul, and we wandered on, and we wandered on, and we were lost. We wanted bread, and we found garbage. The farther we wandered instead of finding rich pasturage we found blasted heath and sharper rocks and more stinging nettles. No pasture. How was it in the club house when you lost your child? Did they come around and help you very much? Did your worldly associates console you very much? Did not the plain Christian man who came into your' house and sat up with your darling child give you more comfort than all worldly associates? Did all the convivial songs you ever heard comfort you in that day of bereavement so much as the song they sang to you—perhaps the very song that was sung by your little child the last Sabbath afternoon of her life? There is a happy land Far, far away, Where saints immortal reign Bright, bright as day. A Man. a Soul. Did your business associates in that day of darkness and trouble give you any especial condolence? Business exasperated you, business wore you out, business left you limp as a rag, but you got no peace. God have mercy on the man who has nothing but business to comfort him! The world afforded you no luxuriant pasturage. A famous English actor stood on the stage impersonating, and thunders of applause came down from the galleries, and many thought it was the proudest moment of all his life, but there was a man asleep just'in front of him, and the fact that that man was indifferent and somnolent spoiled all the occasion for him, and he cried: “Wake up! Wake up!” So one little annoyance-in life has been more pervading to your mind than all the brilliant congratulations and success. Poor pasturage /or your soul you find in this world. The wbrld has cheated you, the world has belipfi you, the world has misinterpreted y<*t, the world has persecuted you. It neVr comforted you. Oh, this world is a good rack from which a horse may pick his foop; it is a good trough from which the siylne may crunch their mess, but it gives bits little food to a soul blood bought and imjnortal! What is a soul? It is a hope high as the throne of God. What is a man? You say, “It is only a man.” It is only a man gone overboard in sin. It is only a man gone overboard in business life. What is a man? The battleground of three worlds, with his hands taking hold of destinies of light or darkness. A man! No line can measure him. No limit can bound him. The archangel befoie the throne cannot outlive him. The stars shall die, but he will watch their extinguishment. The world will burn, but he will gaze at the conflagration. Endless ages will march on. He will watch the procession. A man! The masterpiece of God Almighty. Yet you say, “It is only a man.” Can a nature like that be fed on husks of the wilderness? Substantial comfort will not grow On nature’s‘barren soil; All we can boast till Christ we know Is vanity and toil. Same of you got astray by looking for better pasturage, others by being scared by the dogs. The hound gets over into the pasture field. The poor things fly in every direction. In a few moments they are torn of the hedges, and they are plashed of the ditch, and the lost sheep never gets home unless the farmer goes after it. There is nothing so thoroughly lost as a lost sheep. It may have been in 1857, during the financial panic, or during the financial stress in the fall of 1873, when you got astray. You almost became an atheist. You said, “Where is God that honest men go down and thieves prosper?” You were dogged of creditors, you were dogged of the banks, you were dogged of worldly disaster, and some of you went into misanthropy, and some of you took to strong drink,-and others of you fled out of Christian association, and you got astray. Oh, man, that was the last time when you ought to have forsaken God! Standing amid the foundering of your earthly failures, how could you get along without a God td cqmfort you, and a God to deliver you, and a God to help you, and a God to •are you? , You tell me you hay* been

through enough business trouble almost to kill you. I know it. I cannot understand how the boat could live one hour in that chopped sea. But Ido not know by what process you got astray, some in one way and some in another, and if you could really see the position some of you occupy before God your soul would burst into an agony of tears, and you would pelt the heavens with the cry, “God have mercy!" Sinai’s batteries have been unlimbered above your soul, and at times you have heard it thunder: “The wages of sin is death.” “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God." “By one man sin entered into the world, and death by ein, and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned.” “The soulthat slnneth, it shall die.” When SevnsMmyl wns being bombarded, two Russian Frigates burned all night in the harbor, throwing a glare upon the trembling fortress, and some of you, from what you have told me yourselves, some of you are standing in the night of your soul’s trouble, the cannonade, and the conflagration, and the multiplication, and the multitude of your sorrows and troubles, I think, must make the wings of God's hovering angels shiver to the tip. A Debt Payer, But the last part of my text opens a door wide enough to let us all out and to let all heaven in. Sound it on the organ with all the stops out. Thrum it on the harps with all the strings atune. With all the melody possible let the heavens sound it to the earth and let the earth tell it to the heavens. “The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.” lam glad that the prophet did not stop to explain whom he meant by “him.” Him of the manger, him of the bleedy sweat, him of the resurrection throne, him of the crucifixion agony. “On him the Lord hath laid the iniquity of us all.” “Oh,” says some man, “that isn't generous, that isn’t fair; let every man carry his own burden and pay his own debts.” That sounds reasonable. If I have an obligation, and I have the means to meet it, and I come to you and ask you to settle that obligation, you rightly say, “Pay your own debts.” If you and I are walking down the street, both hale, hearty and well, and I ask you to carry me, you say rightly, “Walk on your own feet.” But suppose you and I were in a regiment, and I was wounded in the battle and I fell unconscious at your ; feet with gunshot fractures and disloca- ; tions, what would you do? You would I call to your comrades, saying: “Come and help! This man is helpless. Bring the ambulance. Let us take him to the hospital.” And I would be a dead lift in your arms, and you would lift me from the ground where I had fallen and put me in the ambulance and take me to the hospital and have all kindness shown me. Would there he anything bemeaning in my accepting that kindness? Oh, no. You would be mean not to do it. That is what Christ does. If we could pay our debts, then it would be better to go up and pay them, saying: “Here, Lord, here is my obligation;here are the means with which I mean to settle that obligation. Nowgive me a receipt. Cross it all out." The debt is paid. But the fact is, we have fallen in the battle; we have gone down under the hot fire of our transgressions; we have been wounded by the sabers of sin; we are helpless; we are undone. Christ comes. The loud clang heard in the sky on that Christmas night was only the bell, the resounding bell of the ambulance. Clear the way for the Son of God. He comes down to bind up the wounds and to scatter the darkness and to save the lost. Clear the way for the Son of God. Christ comes down to us, and we are a dead lift. He does not lift us with the tips of his fingers. He does not lift us with one arm. He comes down upon his knees, and then with a dead lift he raises us to honor and glory and immortality. “The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.’’. W’hy, then, will a man carry his sins? You cannot carry successfully the smallest sin you ever committed. You might as well put the Apennines on one shoulder and the Alps on the other. How much less can you carry all the sins of your lifetime? Christ comes and looks do|wn in your face and says: “I have come through all the* lacerations of these days and through all the tempests of these nights; I have come to bear your burdens and to pardon your sins and to pay your debts. Put them on my shoulder, put them on my heart.” “On him the Lord hath laid the iniquity of us all.” Sin has almost pestered the life out of some of you. At times it has made you cross and unreasonable, and it has spoiled the brightness of your days and the peace of your nights. There are men who have been riddled of sin. The world gives them no solace. Gossamery and volatile the world, while eternity, as they look forward to it, is black as midnight. They writhe under the stings of a conscience which proposes to give no rest here and no rest hereafter, and. yet they do not repent; they do not pray; they do not weep. They do not realize that just the position they occupy is the position occupied by scores, hundreds and thousands of men who never found any hope. A Letter. If this meeting should be thrown open, and the people who are here could give their testimony, what thrilling experiences we should hear on all sides! There is a man who would say: “I had brilliant surroundings, I had the best education that one of the best collegiate institutions of this country could give, and I observedall the moralities of life, and I was selfrighteous, and I thought I was all right before God as I am all right before mam, but the Holy Spirit came to me one day and said, ‘You are a sinner.’ The Holy Spirit persuaded me of the fact. While I had escaped the sins against the law of the land I had really committed the worst sin a man ever commits —the driving back of the Son of God from my heart’s affections —and I saw that my hands were red with the blood of the Son of God, and 1 began to pray, and peal's came to my heart, and I know by experience that what you say is true.” “On him the Lord hath laid the iniquity of us all!” Yonder is a man who would say: “I was the worst drunkard in the city; I went from bad to worse; I destroyed myself; I destroyed my tome; my children cowered when I entered the house; when they put up their lips to be kissed, I .struck them; when my wife protested against the maltreatment, I kicked her into the street. I know all the bruises and all the terrors of a drunkard's woe. I went on farther and farther from God, until one day I got a letter, saying: •: “My Dear Husband—l have tried every way, done everything and prayed earnestly and fervently for your reformation, but it seems of no, avail. Since our little Henry died, with the exception of those few happy weeks; when you remained sober, my life had been one of sorrow., . .

t Many of the nights I have set by th* wft> - dow, with my face bathed In tears, watch i ing far your coming. lam broken heart t ed, I'am sick. Mother and father hav» » been here frequently and begged me t« I come home, but my love for you and my r hope for brighter days have always madt i me refuse them. That hope seems now b* * yond realization, and I have returnee ta ’ them. It is hard, and I battled long beI fore doing it. May God bless and pre--1 serve you and take from you thnt acp i cursed nppetlt*, and hasten the dny t we shall be again living happily together, i This will be my daily prayer, knowing , that he has said, ‘Come unto me, all ys , t that labor and are heavy laden, and I will , give you rest.’ From your loving wife, ; “MARY. I “And so I wandered on and wandered > on,” says that man, “until one night’l f passed a Methodist meeting house, and I - said to myself, ‘l’ll go in and see what > they are doing,’ and I got to the door, and - they were singing: “All may come, whoever will— This man receives poor sinners still. > “And I dropped right there wher/ * i was, and I said, ‘God, have mercy!' and he had mercy on me. My home is restore ed, my wife sings all day long during work, my children come out a long way ( to greet me home, and my household is a little heaven. I will tell you what did all „ this for me. It was the truth that this ! day you proclaim, ‘On him the Lord hath I laid the iniquity of us all.’ ” 1 , Yonder is a woman who would say: “I wandered off from ijyf father’s house; I heard the storm ’ that pelts on a lost soul; my feet were blistered on the hot rocks; I went on and on, thinking that no one cared for my soul, when one night Jesus met me, and he ‘ said: ‘Poor thing, go home! Your father , is waiting for you; your mother is waiting for you. Go home, poor thing!’ And, sir, ' I was too weak to pray, and I was too weak to repent, but I just cried out—l sobbed out my sips and my sorrows on the shoulders of him of whom it is said, ‘The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us , all.’” A Christian Grip, There is a young man who would say “I had a Christian bringing up; I came from, the country to city life; I start*/! well; I had a good position—a good commercial position—but one night at the theater I met some young men who did me no good. They dragged me all through the sewers of iniquity, and I lost my morals, and I lost my position, and I was shabby and wretched. I was going down the street thinking that no one cared for me when a young man tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘George, come with me, and I will do you good.’ I looked at him to see whether he was joking or not. I saw he was in earnest, and I said, ‘W*bnt do you mean, sir?’ ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I mean that if you will come to the meeting to-night I will be very glad to introduce you. I will meet you nt the door. Will you come?’ Said I. ‘I will.’ I went to the place where I was tarrying. I fixed myself up as well as I could. I buttoned my coat over a ragged vest, and I went to the door of the church, and the young man met me, and we went in, and as I went id” I heard an old man praying, and he looked so much like my father, I sobbed right out, and they were all around so kind and so sympathetic that I just there gave my heart to God, and I know that what you say is true; I know it in my own ex' ’ perience.” “On him the Lord hath laid the iniquity of us all.” Oh, my brother, without stopping to look whether your hand trembles or not, without stopping to look whether your hand is bloated with sin or not, put it in my hand and let me give you one warm, brotherly, Christian grip and invite you. right up to the heart, to the compassion, to the sympathy, to the pardon of him on whom the Lord hath laid the iniquity of us all. Throw away your sins. Carry them no longer. I proclaim emancipation to all who are bound, pardon for all sin and eternal life for *ll the dead. A Mighty Load. Some one comes here to-day, and I stand aside. He comes up three steps. He comes to this place. I must stand aside. Taking that place, he spreads abroad his hands, and they were nailed. You see his feet; they were bruised. He pulls aside the robb and shows you his wounded heart. I say, “Art thou weary?” “Yes,”*’ he says, “weary with the world’s woe.” I say, “Whence comest thou?” He says, “I came from Calvary.” I say, “Who comes with thee?" He says, “No one; I have trodden the wine press alone.” I say, "Why comest thou here?” “Oh,” h#* says, “I came here to carry all the sins and sorrows of the people.” And he kneels. He says, “Put on my shoulders all the sorrows and all the sins.” And, conscious of my own sins first, I take them and put them on the shoulders of the Son of God. I say, “Canst thou bear any more, O Christ?” He says, “Yea; more.” And I gather up the sins of 'all those who serve at these altars, the officers of the church of Jesus Christ. I gather up all their sins, and I put them on Christ's shoulders, and I say, “Const thou bear, any more?" He says, “Yes; more.” Theta I gather up all the sins of a hundred peo-! , pie In this house, and I put them on the shoulders of Christ, and I say, “Canst thou bear more?” He says, “Yea, more.” And I gather up all the sins of this assembly and'put them on the shoulders of the Son of God, and I say, “Canst thou bear them?” “Yea," he says; “more.” But he is departing. Clear the 'way for him, tho Son of God! Open the door and' let him pass out. He is carrying our sins and bearing them away. We shall never ■see them again. He throws them down into the abyss, and you hear the long,! reverberating echo of their fall. “On' him the Lord hath laid the iniquity of us all.” Will you let him take your sins to-** day, or do you say, “I will take charge; of them myself, I will fight my own bat-- s ties, I will risk eternity on my own acn count?” I know not how near some of you have come to crossing the line. In this day of merciful visitation while many are coming into the kingdom of Godi join the procession heavenward. Seated! in my church was a man who came in who said, “I don’t know that there is’any God.” That was on Friday night. Igttid, , “We will kneel down and find out whether j there is any God." And in the second seat from the pulpit we knelt. He saidj ’“I have found him. There is a God,' z a pardoning God. I feel'him here.” He ' knelt in the darkness of sin. He arotf I two minutes afterward in the liberty ol the gospel, while another sitting under thi gallery on Friday night said: “My oppor ■ tunity is gone. Last week I might hav< ; been saved; not now. The door is shut.’’ “Behold the lamb of God, who away the sin Os the world.” ’“Now is t9a accepted time. Now is the day of salva- ■ tion.” “It is appointed onto all men . 9bC.lt* 41* and after that the judgment? ; ■ ' ■ , ; - • k