The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on June 15, 1898 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Algona, Iowa
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Wednesday, June 15, 1898
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TJtfPKtt BE8 MO1NESJ ALGONA IOWA, WMMISSDAY * JUNE 1$ 18&8, INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION. CHAPTER XI.—(Continued.) "Mr. Harris will walk with me," faltered Dorothy, shrinking back. "By what right?" demanded David, In a bitter undertone. "By the right of Miss Strode's wish, air," put in Dick, icily, "and in some measure by the right of having been the last person to whom Miss Dimsdale spoke in this world, and in some measure by the right of having been one of the three persons who saw her die." It was all over in a minute or two, and only those standing very near to them heard a word at all. Dick took hold of Dorothy's hand and drew her out of fthe room, and the rest of the company followed as they would— David Stevenson among them, his bead well up in the air, but his eyes gleaming with anger, and his face as white as chalk. However, it was.useless to show anger about such a matter, and the incident passed by. And when the last Bad office was over, the large company separated, only the lawyer from Colchester returning to the Hall to make the usual explanations and to read the Will to Dorothy. "And are you going to remain here for the present?" he asked the girl kindly. "Oh, no, I am going away at once," she answered. "But may I ask where?" he inquired. "Yes; we are going away, Barbara and I, for a change—I must get away; It is dreadful here. I hope I shall never come back again." "You will feel differently after a time," said the lawyer, kindly; he knew how things were with David Stevenson, though not -what Dorothy's feelings towards him were. The three were alone then, Dick Ayl- xner having purposely abstained from appearing at the house after their return from the churchyard; he was, indeed, at that very moment, sitting by the fire in Barbara's little room at the back of the house. "Yes, perhaps, after a time," she answered feverishly. "But, Mr. Marks, I wanted to ask you a question—Mr. Stevenson told me that I should have about a thousand pounds?" "About that, I should think; but we cannot tell exactly until Miss Dimsdale's affairs are settled." "But will you get them settled at once? I want to have everything settled," she said anxiously. "You see, I cannot arrange anything for myself until I know just how I stand, and I ehould like to know just what I shall >be able to do as soon as possible." "Very well, we will hurry everything on as much as possible," said. Mr. Marks to David; "Miss Dtasdale's affairs were in perfect order." "Oh! yes, it will be easy enough," Bald David; then as the lawyer was gathering his papers together, he said in an undertone to her: "You are very anxious to shake the dust of Grave- leigh off your feet, Dorothy." The great tears welled into her eyes, and for a moment she could not speak. "I don't think you give me much encouragement to do anything else, David," she said, reproachfully. "I am very anxious to go away, because it is dreadful living in this house without Auntie—dreadful; and I am very unhappy, David, and I don't think it is very kind of you to be so— so—" but there the sobs choked her and she stopped. "I never thought you would be unkind to me," she said under her breath. "I'm a brute," he answered. "There, don't cry, Dorothy. You shall have everything as you want it." , The result of all this was that, two days later, Dorothy and Barbara went off to Bournemouth, accompanied by Lome Doone in a big basket, and there they remained, quietly and gradually recovering from the great shock of Miss Dimsdale's death. If they were not very happy in their simple lodgings they were very peaceful, and once 'Dick came and stayed at the hotel near RUSHED OUT OP THE ROOM. for a couple of days, and then Dorothy was very happy indeed. .' During this time their banns were published in one of the churches at Bournemouth and also in a London church, in the parish of which Dick engaged a room and put therein some of his belongings, so as to make himself a standing in the place. But Dick was only at Bournemouth for those two days, and twice when David Stevenson was in Colchester ou busln,esg h,e happened to meet him in the street, not a little to his relief. And Mr. Marks meantime worked away, and, for a lawyer, really hurried hings up in a wonderful way, so hat by the time Dorothy's twenty-first birthday came everything was settled, and he was ready to hand over to her he money to which she was entitled under her aunt's will. Mr. Marks herefore wrote to her, telling her that he was ready to hand over to Barbara he sum of one hundred pounds; to her, Dorothy, a sum of thirteen hundred and forty-five pounds, the sum left over and above after all expenses had been paid. He asked her also when she and Barbara would be able to meet him and Mr. Stevenson, the xecutor of Miss Dimsdale's will. Dorothy replied at once that she would be In London two days later, and if it suited them both would meet hem there—would he write to Mr. Morley's Hotel, to say if that would )e convenient? And eventually they lid meet at Morley's Hotel, and Dorohy and Barbara signed the necessary papers, heard the necessary explana- ions, and from that moment were absolutely free of all connection with raveleigh for ever, if they so wished. "You will put that check into a proper bank," said Mr. Marks to Dorothy. •Yes," Dorothy answered, "It will go to the bank before three o'clock." "And remember, if at any time there is any little matter that I can do for you or any advice I can give you, you •cam, write to me as a friend, and I will always do my best for you," the old lawyer said. "Thank you so much," cried Dorothy, pressing his hand affectionately. The old man blinked his eyes a little, patted her shoulder and coughed, and then took himself rather noisily away, with a kindly hand-shake to Barbara. Then It was David's turn to say goodbye. "I wanted to tell you, Dorothy," he said, huskily, "that I bought the old cobs, as you wished, and they will have an easy berth in my stables as long as they live. And I wanted to tell you, too, that I meant every word of what I said to you the day after Miss Dimsdale died: If ever you want me you have only to say a single word and I shall come." "You are very good, David," said she, with trembling lips. "I don't know what you are going to do or what your plans are," he went on, "but I hope you will be happy, and that God will bless you, wherever you are and whatever you do;" and then he bent down and kissed her little, slender hands, and, without looking at her again, rushed out of the room. be tomorrow," CHAPTER XII. OOR Dorothy fell sobbing into Barbara's arms. "Oh! Barbara, it is all so dreadful; it is all so dreadful; it brings it all back again," she wailed. "Nay, nay, my dearie, think of what's going to Barbara murmured, tenderly. "Don't grieve like this, my dearie; don't, now." "But I can't help grieving a little, Barbara," Dorothy cried, impatiently. "You forget what they have been all my life to me until just now. And Auntie wanted me to marry David almost to the last, and though couldn't do that, he has been very kind and generous to me, and I hate not to be friends with him, after all. And then I meant to tell him a little about Elsie Carrington, and then each time I've seen him I have felt so miserable and so guilty, Barbara, that I could have cried of shame. Yes, indeed, I could." "Well, but, my dearie, it's over now and David Stevenson would not have been satisfied to have you friends with him. Men never are when they want love. And, after all, it wasn't your fault that you never liked David; I never could abide him myself, and I'm sure, Miss Dorothy, dear, that you detested him long enough before you ever set eyes on Mr. Harris." "But, Auntie—," Dorothy sobbed. "I'm sure the dear mistress was the last one in all the world to have knowingly made you miserable about David Stevenson or any other gentleman on earth," Barbara answered, positively "But what did you want to tell me about Miss Carrington, dearie?" "Elsie always liked him," Dorothy began, when the old servant interrupt ed her. "Nay, now, Miss Dorothy, take my advice and don't you be meddling be tween David Stevenson and Miss Carrington. They wouldn't either o them thank you for it if they knew it and if you was to mention her name even it would set Mr, David agains her forever. Never you trouble your head about him; he's no worse off than he's always been—better, in fact, to: he \a richer now than before the Hal fell to him. J dare say he'll feel bad about you for a bit, but remember Miss Dorothy, that it's harder to Io8< what you have than what you haven' got and never had." "Perhaps you are tight, Barbara," laid Dorothy, a little comforted. "Ay, I am right there," Bald Barbara, wisely. Well, the next day Dick Aylmer :atne up from Colchester with all the deight of a long leave before him, and n the wildest and most joyous spirits, so that Dorothy was fairly infected by his gayety. That evening he took her and Barbara to dine at Simpson's, and then to a theater to finish up the even- ng. And the morning following that, Dorothy, dressed in a quiet gray, gown, with her silver belt around her waist, ot into a cab with the old servant and drove to the church where their banns had been "cried," and there hey met Dick, and the two were made man and wife. It was a very quiet and solemn wedding in the gloomy, empty church, with its dark, frowning galleries and ts long, echoing aisles, down which ;helr voices seemed to travel as Into .he ages of eternity. And then when the short ceremony was over—and oh! what a lifetime of mischief a clergyman can do in twen- y minutes—Dick kissed his wife and then Dorothy kissed Barbara, and they all went in to sign the registers. "You'll have your lines, Miss Dorothy,"' urged Barbara. "No, they are safe enough here," Dorothy replied. "But I would have them, my dear," Barbara entreated in a whisper. 'Yes, we will have our lines," said Oick; he would agreed to have carried the church along If It would have Iven them pleasure, he was so happy lust then. And then they went off to Dick's hotel, where they had a champagne TALMAGHE'S SERMON. V>/ .Q£11 KISSED HIS WIFE, lunch In a private room, and Dick drank to his bride's health and Dorothy drank to his, and Barbara drank to them both, and then insisted that the wine had got into her head. And after that they parted for a short time, Dorothy and Barbara going off to Morley's to fetch their luggage and pay their bill, and meeting Dick again with his belongings at Victoria Station, where they parted in earnest from Barbara, who was going to spend the two months with various friends and relations in or around London. "And Barbara, this will keep you going till we get back," said Dick, slipping twenty pounds into her hand. "But, Mr. Harris," cried Barbara, feeling that there were four notes, "it's too much; I shan't need it." "Take it while you can get it, Barbara," he laughed; "I dare say we shall be desperately hard up by the time wo get back again;" and then the train began to move, and he pushed her hand back. "Good-bye, you have the address: Mrs. Harris will write every week;" and then the train had slipped away beyond speaking distance. "Poor old Barbara!", she cried. Dick caught hold of her hand. "My darling, I have got you all to myself at last," he murmured passionately. They were soon away from London and off to Dover, for Dick had foreign lea^e, and they had agreed to spend the next two months by the sunny shores of the Mediterranean. (To be Continued.) ABOUT SAFFRON. Its High Price Hug I*ed to a Peculiar Form ot Adulteration. Saffron would strike an ordinary observer as decidedly expensive at 50 shillings per pounds, until told that it is composed of the central small portions only of the flowers of a species ot crocus, 70,000 of which it takes to yield the material for one pound.says Chambers' Journal. The wonder then be-comes that it is so cheap, that it can pay to grow and gather it at the price As a matter of fact, it has failed to pay the English grower—by this retaining, in the name of his town of Suffron-Walden, but a hint of former importance in this particular direction French and Spanish soils being more suitable to the full growth of the flowers, and foreign labor cheaper in the work of picking. Its use in medicine has practically died out, bar, perhaps the popular belief that, steeped in ho milk or cider, it helps the eruption •> measles to fully appear. As a dye in creaming curtains and to give a rid appearance to cake it is still, however in general demand, for which purpos it is well suited in being both harmless and sarong, one grain, composed of the style and stigmas of nine flowers, being sufllcient to give a distinct yellow tin to ten gallons of water. Its big! price, by the way, has led to a peculla form of adulteration, for, apart from the crude and commonplace one dusting with a heavy powder, such a, gypsum, to give weight, the simi portions of other and commoner fipw ers have been specially dyed an worked thoroughly in among the gen uine ones. 'HELPFUL RELIGION," LAST SUNDAY'S SUBJECT. from the Text, Psalms, Chnptcr XX.. Verge 2, as Follows: "Send Thee Help Ffoin the Snnctimry of the Lord. If you should ask fifty men what he church is, they would give you fifty different answers. One man would ay, "It is a convention of hypocrites." \nother, "It is an assembly of people who feel themselves a great deal bet- er than others." Another, "it is n place for gossip, where wolverene dls- >ositions devour each other." Another, "It is a place for the cultivation of superstition and cant." Another, 'It Is an arsenal where theologians go o get pikes and muskets and shot." Another, "It is an art gallery, where men go to admire grand arches, and ixqulslte fresco, and musical warble, and the Dantesque in gloomy imagery." Another man would say, "It is the best )lace on e^arth except my own home." 'If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my ight hand forget her cunning." Now, whatever the church is, my text tells you what It ought to be; a jreat, practical, homely, omnipotent lelp. "Send thee help from the sanctuary." The pew ought to yield restfulness for the body. The color of the upholstery ought to yield pleasure to the eye. The entire service ought to yield strength for the moil and struggle of every-day life. The Sabbath ought to be harnesed to all the six days of the week, drawing them in the right direction. The church ought to be a magnet, visibly and mightily affecting all the homes of the worshipers. Every man gets roughly jostled, gets abused, gets cut, gets insulted, gets slighted, gets exasperated. By the time the Sabbath comes he has an iccumulation of six days of annoyance, and that Is a starveling church service which has not strength enough to take ihat accumulated annoyance and hurl it into perdition. The business man sits down in church headachey from the week's engagements. Perhaps he wishes he had tarried at home on the lounge with the newspapers and the slippers. That man wants to be cooled off and graciously diverted. The first wave of the religious service ought to dash clear over the hurricane docks, and leave him dripping with holy and glad and heavenly emotion. "Send thee help from the sanctuary." In the first place, sanctuary help ought to come from the music. A woman dying In England persisted In singing to the last moment. The attendants tried to persuade her to stop, saying it would exhaust her and make her disease worse. She answered, "I must sing; I am only practicing for the heavenly choir." Music on earth is a rehearsal for music in heaven. If you and I are going to take part in that great orchestra, it is high time that we were stringing and thrumming our harps. They tell us that Thalberg and Gottschalk never would go into a concert until they had first in private rehearsed, although they were such masters of the instrument. And can it be that we expect to take part in the great oratorio of heaven if we do not rehearse here? But I am not speaking of the next world. Sabbath song ought to set all the week to music. We want not more harmony, not more artistic expression, but more volume in our church music. The English dissenting churches far surpass our American churches in this respect. An English audience of one thousand people will give more volume of sacred song than an American audience of two thousand people. I do not know what the reason is. Oh, you ought to have heard them sing in Surrey chapel. I had the opportunity of preaching the anniversary—I think the ninetieth anniversary—sermon In Rowland Hill's old chapel, and when they lifted their voices in sacred song it was simply overwhelming; and then, in the evening of the same day, in Agricultural Hall, many thousand voices lifted in doxology. It was like the voice of many waters, and like the voice of many thunderings, and like tUe voice of heaven. The blessing thrilled through all the laboring throng, And heaven was won by violence of song. Now, I am no worshiper of noise, but I believe that if our American churches would with full heartiness of soul, and full emphasis of voice, sing the songs of Zion, this part of sacred worship would have tenfold more power than it has now. Why not take this part of the sacred service and lift it to where it ought to be. All the annoyances of life might be drowned out by that sacred song. Do not tell me that it is not fashionable to sing Only In that way can we come to the full force of this exercise. Twenty thousand years will not wear out the hymns of Wm. Cowper, Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts. Suppose now each person In an audience has brought all the annoyances of the last three hundred and sixty-five days. Fill the room to the celling with sacred song and you would drown out all those annoyances of the last three hundred and sixty-five days, and you would drown them out forever. Organ and cornet are only to marshal the voice. Let the voice fall Into line, and in companies, and In battalions, by storm take the obduracy and sin of the world. If you can not sing for yourself, sing for others. By trying to give others good cheer, you will bring good cheer to your own heart. When Londonderry, Ireland, was besieged many years ago, the people Inside the city were famishing, and a vessel cnme up with provisions, but the vessel ran on the river bank and stuck fast. The enemy went clown with laughter and derision to board the vessel, when the vessel gave a broadside fire against the enemy, and by the shock was turned back into the stream and all was well. Oh, ye who are high and dry on the rocks of melancholy, give a broadside fire of song against your spiritual enemies, and by holy rebound you will come out Into the calm waters. I tarried many nights In London, and I used to hear the bells, the small bells of the city, strike the hour of night—one, two, three, four, and among them the great St. Paul's cathedral would come in to mark the hours, making all the other sounds seem utterly insignificant, as with mighty tongue it announced the hour of the night, every stroke an overmastering boom. My friends, it was intended that all tho lesser sounds of the world should bo drowned out in the mighty tongue of congregational song beating against the gates of heaven. Do you know how they mark tho hours in heaven? They have no .clocks, as they have no candles, but a groat pendulum of hallelujah swinging across heaven from eternity to eternity. Let those refuse to sing Who never knew our God; But children of the Heavenly King Should speak their joys abroad. What is the use of our going away off to find an illustration in past age, when during the great forest fires in Michigan a mail carrier on horseback, riding on, pursued by those flames which had swept over a hundred miles, saw an old man by the roadside, dismounted, helped the old man on the horse, saying: "Now whip up and get away." The old man got away, but the mail-carrier perished. Just like Christ dismounting from the glories of heaven to put us on the way of deliverance, then falling back Into the flames of sacrifice for others. Pang for others! Woe for others. Death for others. Vicarious suffering. Again I remark, that sanctuary help ought to come through the prayers of all the people. The door of the eternal store-house is hung on one hinge, a gold hinge, the hinge of prayer, and when the whole audience lay hold of that door, it must come open. There are many people spending their first Sabbath after some great bereavement. What will your prayer do for them? How will it help the tomb in that man's heart? Here are people who have not been in church before for ten years; what will your prayer do for them by rolling over their soul holy memories? Here are people in crises of awful temptation. They are on the verge of despair, or wild blundering, or theft, or suicide. What will your prayer do for them in the way of giving them strength to resist? Will you be chiefly anxious about the fit of the glove that you put to your forehead while you prayed? Will you be chiefly critical of the rhetoric of the pastor's petition? No. No. A thousand people will feel, "that prayer is for me," and at every step of the prayer chains ought to drop off, and temples of sin ought to crash into dust, and jubilees of deliverance ought to brandish their trumpets. In most of our churches we have three prayers—the opening prayer, what is called the "long prayer," and the closing prayer. There are many people who spend their first prayer in arranging their apparel after entrance, and spend the second prayer, the "long prayer," in wishing it were through, and spend the last prayer in preparing to start for home. The most insignia- cant part of every religious service is the sermon. The more Important parts are the Scripture lesson and the prayer. The sermon is only a man talking to a man. The Scripture lesson is God talking to man. Prayer is man talking to God. Oh, if we understood the grandeur and the pathos of this exercise of prayer, instead of being a dull exercise, we would imagine that the clothes; and many a has dismounted from the saddlebags, and in his linen duster preached a sermon that shook earth and heaven with, its Christian eloquence. No flew Goa- pel, only the old Gospel in a way milted to the time. No new church, bttt a church to be the asylum, the inspiration, the practical sympathy, and the eternal help of the people. But while half of the doors of th§ church are to be set open toward this world, the other half of the doors of the church must be set open toward th» next. You and I tarry here only a brief space. We want somebody to teach us how to get out of this life at the right time and In the right way. Some fall out of life, some go stumbling out of life, some go groaning out of life, some go cursing out of life. We want to go singing, rising, rejoicing, triumphing. We want half the doors of the church set In that direction. We want half the prayers that way, half the sermons that way. We want to know how to get ashore from the tumult of this world Into the land of everlasting peace. W« do not want to stand doubting and shivering when we go away from this world; we want our anticipations aroused to the highest pitch. We want to have the exhilaration of a dying child In England, the father telling me the story. When he said to her, "Is the path narrow?" she answered, "The path Is narrow; It Is so narrow that I cannot walk arm In arm with Christ, so Jesus goes ahead, and he says, 'Mary, follow.' " Through the church gates set heavenward how many of your friends and mine have gone? The last time they were out of the house they came to church. The earthly pilgrimage ended at the pillar of public worship, and then they marched out to a bigger and brighter assemblage. Some of them were so old they could not walk without a cane or two crutches; now they have eternal juvenescence. Or they were so young they could not walk except as the materanl hand guided them; now they bound with tho hilarities celestial. The last time we saw them they were wasted with malarial or pulmonlc disorder; but now they have no fatigue, and no difficulty of respiration in the pure air of heaven. How I wonder when you and I will cross over! Some of you have had about enough of the thumping and flailing of this life. A draught from the fountains of heaven would do you good. Complete release you could stand very well. If you got on the other side, and had permission to come back, you would not come. Though you were Invited to come back, and' join your friends on earth, you would 1 say, "No, let me tarry here until they come; I shall not risk going back; If a man reaches heaven he had better stay here." Oh, I join hands with you in that uplifted splendor. "When the shore Is won at last, Who will count the billows past?" In Freybourg, Switzerland, there is the trunk of a tree four hundred years old. That tree was planted to commemorate an event.. About ten miles from the city the Swiss conquered the Burgundians, and a young man wanted;. to take the tidings to the city. He took a tree branch and ran with such speed the ten miles that when he reached the city waving the tree branch he had only strength to cry, "Victory!" and dropped dead. The tree branch that he carried was planted, and it grew to be a great tree twenty feet in circumference, and the remains of It are there to this day. My hearer, when you have fought your last battle with sin and death and hell, and they have been routed in the conflict, It will be a joy worthy of celebration. You will fly to the city and cry, "Victory!" and drop at the feet of the great King, Then the palm branch of the earthly race will be planted to become the out- branching tree of everlasting rejoicing. "When shall these eyes thy heaven- built walls, And pearly gates behold, Thy bulwarks with salvation strong, And streets of shining gold?" >»* very'loudly? Then, I say, away with fashion. We dam back the great Mississippi of congregational singing, and let a few drops of melody trickle through the dam. I say, take away the dam, and let the billows roar on their way to the oceanic heart of God. Whether it is fashionable to sing loudly or not, let us sing with all possible emphasis. We hear a great deal of the art of dinging, of music as an entertainment, of music as a recreation. . It is high time we heard something of music as a help, a practical help. In order to do this, we must have only a few hymns. New tune? and new hymns every Sunday make poor congregational singing. Fifty hymns are enough for fifty years. The Episcopal church prays the same prayers every Sabbath, and year after yew, am} century century. For that the hearty reapq,ns,es. hint from that fact,, a»d let —- room was full of divine and angelic appearances. But, my friends,''the old style of church will not do the work. We might as well now try to take all the passengers from Washington to New York by stage-coach, or all the passengers from Albany to Buffalo by canal-boat, or do all the battling of the world With bow and arrow, as with the old style Of church, to meet the exigencies of this day. Unless the church in our day will adapt itself to the time, it will become extinct. The people reading newspapers and books all the week, in alert, picturesque and resounding style, will have no patience with Sabbath humdrum. We have no objection to bands ajnd &urpUce, ana all the Hired Webster for a Week, Of course Webster was in demand for those who could afford to pay for his services, A sharp Nantucket man is said to have got the better of the great defender of the Constitution in an amusing way, however. He had a small case which was to be tried at Nantucket, one week In June, and he posted to Webster's office in great haste. It was a contest with a neighbor over a matter of considerable local interest, and his pride as a litigant wag at stake. He told Webster the particulars, and asked what he would charge to conduct the case, "Why," said Webster, "you can't afford to hire me. I should have to stay down there 1 the whole week, and my fee would be more than the whole case Is worth. I couldn't go down there for less than $1,000. I could try every case on the docket as well as one, and it wouldn't cost any more, for one case would take my time for the entire week, anyway." "All right. Mr. Webster/' quickly re^ sponded the Nantucker. "Here's your ?l,000. You come down, and I'll fix it so you can try every case. Webster was so amused over this proposition that he kept 'his word. He spent tjie entire week in Nantucket, and appeared on one side or the other in every case that came up for hearing. The shrewd Nantucker hired Daniel out to all his friends who were in litigation, aud received in return about |1,5QO, BO that'he g«t Webster's services for noth* ing, and wade a good profit to boot. It that ma.n was alive in these days of he would prob-

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