The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917, April 15, 1898, Image 2

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CHAPTER VI. (Continued.)
' The devil take those fellows," Dick
was saying to himnelf at that mo
ntong, as he drove along. "They have
either got a clue or tlipy'vc turned ,
suspicious. Snooks the other day and
• .aurence now. I shall have to make
up my mind to screw things up to a
But he had not now much fe*r that
the climax would he a disagreeable
one for him; and he drove along over
the muddy roads as gayly as ever he
had done between the sweet Sep
tember hedgerows. Yet when ho
drew up in front of the Hall It
struck him that there was something
strange about the place. Kor onp
thing, the usual neat and well-kept
gravel was cut up, und in oae place j
the low box-hedge which skirted the t
now empty flower beds was cut and
crushed as If a careless driver bad |
driven over it.
He was not long left In doubt. Old
Adam came to take his horse und led
him off to the stable, shaking hla bead
with ominous sadness, and muttering j
something indistinctly about a bad i
Job; ami then Barbara opened the
door with scared, white face, and quiv
ering lips which could not command
themselves sufficiently to tell him
"Good God, what is It?” exclaimed
Dick; his thoughts flying straightway
to Dorothy.
But It was not Dorothy, for In two j
minutes she came running into the
room, tried to speak, and then, scared
nnd trembling and sobbing, she found
herself somehow or other III bis arms.
Dick was almost beside himself with
anxiety, but he soothed her tenderly, |
and patted her shoulder with a gentle, ;
“There, there, darling, don’t cry like
that. What is it, dear? Tell me.'"
But for a little time Dorothy slm- j
ply coma not tell mm. i ve oeen
longing for you to come," she said
at last. Oh. poor Auntie! and she iB
all I have in the world in the world.”
"Hut is she III?” asked he. “Remem
ber that I know nothing.”
"But, you got my telegram," ' she
said, ceasing her sobs to look at him.
"Your telegram? No! What tele
”1 sent one early this morning to
you at Colchester,” she answered—
“ ‘To R. Harris, 40th Dragoons, Col
chester.' Was not that direction
“Well, scarcely," said Dick, half
smiling at his own knowledge. "But
about your aunt—is she ill?”
Dorothy's tears broke out afresh.
"She is dying—dying,” Bhe Bobbed.
"The doctor says there is no hope—no
hope whatever.”
"But tell me all about it,” he urged.
"What is the matter with her? She
was all right yesterday afternoon
when I left. It must have been very
sutjdden. Was it a fit?”
"Paralysis,” answered Dorothy
mournfully. "We were just going to
lied, and Auntie got up, and all at
oufe she said, 'I feel so strange, Dor
othy; fetch Barbara;’ and when 1
came back a minute afterward she
had slipped down on the floor by
the sofa there and could hardly speak.
We put a pillow under her head, and
got Adam up, and Adam drove into
Dovercourt and brought the doctor out
as fast as he could; but Auntie did
not know him at all. And as soon as
lie came in, Barbara and I knew it
was all over with her, for he shook
his head, and said, ‘We had better get
her to bed. Oh, no, it won’t disturb
her, she feels nothing.' But she did
feel something.’ Dorothy added, •’for |
when we were undressing her she
spoke several times, and always the
same. ‘My poor little girl Dorothy
all alone.' " and here, poor child, she.
broke down again. Robbing over her
"wn desolation. ‘1 begged and prayed
her not to worry about me, but It was
no good. Dr Stanley Mild she Oouldn't
bear me, and so she kept on all uight,
My poor little girl all alone.'"
For some minutes Dick said never a
word. "Dorothy," he said at last, "1
bhould like lo see her Where Is she’"
"In her own bed,1' said Dorothy won
"Then take me lip there. Perhaps
kite will understand uie if 1 tell her
something "
So Dorothy took him up to the large
darkeued room where the mistress of
the house lay dying. Durbars, tilled
with grief and dismay, tat keeping
watch beside her and she stared with
surprise tu see Dorothy come in. fol
lowed by the tall soldier, who en
tered with a soft tread and went up
to the bed. where he stood for a mo
' mi in watching the dying woman, and
listening tu the Incoherent, tu Holding
words that f«dl from her Up* “Dor
othy little girl no one atone •
ah?—'* and then a long sigh enough
tu break the hearts that heard It
"Just pull up that blind fur a mtn
tile. Mnrbara * said inch to the weep
mg woman "I want to .peak tu your
m Is trees and I can't tell whether she
will understand me units* I .an see
her face "
Then aa ttnrhnia dr. • up ke iitiad
and let the feeble November daylight
In upon the pallid foe tying so .rt»
|p among (he pillow*, he laid hi* bead
upon the nerve*** on* tying upon ike
“Mi** (umedalc h* Mid do rnu
Imm Ml, » • nut lint ns no ogn
Pew •« •***» u *
Miss Dimsdale, don t you Know
me, Dick Harris?”
For a moment there was a death
like silence, then the dying woman
muttered, "Dorothy—girl- alone."
"You are troubling aliout Dorothy,”
nald Dick, slowly and clearly, "and I
have something to tell you about
Dorothy. Can you hear me? Cannot ,
you make me some sign that you hear
me? Can you move yotir hand?'
But no, the hand remained perfectly
still, still and cold, as If It were dead j
"Can you make me no sign that you
hear tne?" Dick urged. "I must tell j
you this about Dorothy. H will make
you quite easy In your mind about ;
Still she did not move or speak, but
after a moment or so her eyes slowly
opened arid she looked at him.
"1 see that you hear me and
know me," said Dick. “You are
troubling jsi know what will happen
to Dorothy If you should die iu this
Illness. Is that It?"
"Yes.” She had managed to speak
Intelligibly at last, and Dick pressed
ihe cold, nerveless hand s'.ill covered
by his own.
"1 want to marry Dorothy at once."
lie said very clearly and gently. "I
should have asked you soon In any
ase. But you will he quite satisfied to
know that she Is safe with me, won’t
There was another silence; then the
poor tied tongue tried to speak, tried
igain, and at last mumbled something
which the three listeners knew was,
'Bless you.”
■'Auntie, auntie," sobbed Dorothy, In
an agony, “say one word to me—to
ate and poor Barbara, do.”
The dying eyes turned toward the
faithful servant, and a flickering smile
passed across the worn, gray face.
.1 .1 . ’• .. U _ ,,..1.1 nwtro eloOP.
ly than she had yet spoken. "Very
happy,” and the eyes turned toward
"Auntie!” cried Dorothy.
”My litte girl.” said the dying worn
=^MS.^N iliillllll
an, almost clearly now. ”My dear,
good child. I am quite happy,”
There was a moment's silence,
broken only by the girl’s wild sobs,
and when Dick looked up again, the
gray shadows had fallen over the
worn face, and he knew that her mind
was at rest now.
And in the quiet watches of that
r.lght Marion Dimsdalc passed quietly
away, just as the tide turned backward
to the great North Sea.
ICI< stayed at
Gravelelgh Hall
until the end came,
after which he
bade Dorothy go to
lied, and he put
his horse in and
drove back to Col
chester, which he
reached In time for
the day's duty, be
ing orderly olilcer
"1 must stay in the b.irr.u ka all to
morrow, darling. 1 am on duty," Ur
explained to Her; "but I'll get leave the
next day and come out here in the
morning Meanwhile, will you and
Harbnra .say nothing of the engage
ment between ns?- I want to haw- a
long talk to you before an> one else
knows a single word."
And imrothy. of course promised,
and Hatbairf promised too, lielleviug
{ quite that Mr. Harris wished to say
I nothing about marrying and giving in
, mariugr while the dear mistress of
; the house la) wild and still within It.
It wa* a sad and wretched day, The
news spread quickly through the
neighbor iuasl, and every few minutes
I inqulrera value to the door to hear th -
details from tiarhara and ask kindly
for tkiroihv Vud about a»ou by the
time IkiroShy had dragged herself out
: of b*t| and was sitting miserably l-e
| side the diawlag room #re Iksvld
' ids reason rusle along the avenue an
; told HarlMis that he wanlvd la mm
Mias llwiMthy
Miss |s.r»»ih» ta wry pwrly an I
up**' sir " said Hartmra. who had s
I sort at instimt that ISaroihy would
j rather sat see (his particular visitor
"Van hot I moat sea h»r all ths
same said I David curtly * Where V
j shat*'
In the draaiaa row*, sir," mb
t tiarhara “*tu» I dun t think ) «** kr
you g., in wit none asking Mist, Doro
thy l—''
"Do you know." asked David, with
exasperating calmness, "that I am
Miss Dimsdale's sole executor? No. I
tiiought not. Then you will understand j
now, perhaps, that it is necessary that
I should see her—to find out her '
wishes with regard to the funeral for ;
one thing, and to give her authority to
have her black frocks made for an- ,
other;-' and then, poor Barbara hav- j
ing shrunk away seared and trembling
from this new and strange David
Stevenson, whom she did not seem to
know at all, he went straight to the
drawing room, going In and shutting j
the door behind him.
Dorothy Jumped up with a cry al
most of alarm when she saw who had
thus entered. "There" said he, cold- |
ly, motioning her back to her chair, :
"don't he afraid; I shall not hurt you," |
and then he got himself a chair ami
ret it a little way from hers.
"I was obliged to come and see you
at once, Dorothy,” he said, in a cold
and formal way, "because your poor
aunt made me the sole executor under
her will. Hut first let me say how
very, very sorry I am that 1 have to
eome like this. I have known Miss
Dimsdale all my life, and loved her al
Dorothy had softened a little at this,
and before be had ended his sentence
began to cry piteously. David Steven
son went on:
"I don't want to sppak about the
reason why she left me in charge of
everything.” he said at least, not
just now. Of course, she thought that i
everything would be very different
will) us. And then. too. she was a
good deal mixed up with me in busi
ness matters, and I believe she wished |
that the outside world should know as
little of her affairs as possible. Now.
Dorothy. It shall be as you wish; i
will either simply hear your wishes
about the funeral and the mourning
and all that, and tell you how your af- '
fairs stand by and-by, or I will tell ■
you now, whichever you like."
"I would rather know the worst
now," said Dorothy, in a very low
voice. Site knew from his manner that
lie had no comforting news to tell j
“Then I will tea yon." said he. In a
strained tone; "and first I mawt ask i
you, did Miss Dimsdale ever tel! you
that she. had great losses during the 1
past two years?"
“Losses!" cried Dorothy, with open \
eyes. "No; I don't know wbat you ]
"I feared not. Well, she had several
terrible losses of money, and—and, to
cut a long story short, Dorothy, I ad
vanced her several large sums on—on
the security of this property.”
“Then this—go on.” said Dorothy.
“At that time Miss Dimsdale and I
both thought that everything would
be different between yon and me, and,
In fact, that I was but advancing
money to you. We thought that the
world—our little world here, I mean —
would never know anything about it,
and she was obliged to sell the Hall
to somebody. 1 gave her more for it
than anybody else in the world would
have done, because—weil, because I
wished to oblige her, and to help her
over this difllculty. On no account
would I have disturbed her here or
have taken a farthing of rent from her,
if she had lived to be ninety.”
“Then this is your hi use?” Dorothy
“It is," he answered, quietly.
“But Auntie had a very large an
nuity,” he exclaimed.
(To be continued.)
Uiurrallr lletleveil to Have Keen Ilea, lied
About A. I). ISO.
Scholars differ in opinion as to the
date at which the books now found in
the New Testament were completed,
says the Review of Reviews, but it is ;
probable that this was accomplished
not later than 130. Many centuries
have passed since the formation of the
old testament, but the new was all
written within a -ingle hundred years.
The decision as to which books should
be received into the new canon was
not so quickly reached, fur the earliest
fathers of the church frequently quote
from other gospels, such us one ”ac
roriling to the Kgyptlans," or "accord
i«. .. ,i,n tioi....... „ ••
church accepted sunt# books not re
ceived by that of North America or
tlie western church and vice versa.
There ix si legend that ut the llrxt ecum
enical council of Nicaca, 325, cop:.-* of
the Christian literature then current
were laid beneath the altnr and the
genuine book* leaped out of the inaas
and rauged thein.elvea on the alts'.
It probably contain* a germ of the truth
that at thl* convocation it w*» de.
('tiled thkv the hooka nows received
were apostolic or written under ipoa
itillc direction and the other* were
xporluu*. U-- that a* It may the Jodg
| no-nt of several generation* of Chris
tian* certainly decided upon the value
of these books «* dlstlngilUbed front
in any other* written at shout that lime
, or later and the aougt II of Carthage
! t'lTI t* said to have lived Ihe nnun
the word "canon was first used hv
Sihanasiua. In the fourth century, tn
the sense of accepted" or ' author
j tied and Jrmme and Augustine held
lit* prevent it- * teviameni a* c*„ ml
| cat
toil la Haw l« tsi.lUiMi.,
a,i John Lubb.M h malm th* remark
aide atatvuieat that wh- n a* consul
vr the liabitv of ant*, their autiai or
gmiration Ihetr large i lumuarrieu,
, .1.4 elatsorat* hatMUtianv ihsur road
• ays, p.**a».«ion of 4»w..*M«
I ; a Kill and even in tome .***., of
•lave*. It be admitted that >bay
I kata a fait vim to tank n«»t i« man
ig th* mat* of Igteingegye
«*rom flic l'ollim Injj Teat* Ifeb. U : ?’!;
’‘Without Hlirddlng of lllooil ThfW !•»
No BcmliiKlon" An K«*ho of War
Timed I'icturn of iurnucts
Jolm G. Whittier, the last of the
great school of American poets that
made the last quarter of this century
brilliant, asked me in the White raoun- j
tains, one morning after prayers, in '
which I iiad given out C'owper's famous
hymn about "The Fountain Filled with
Blood,” “Do you really believe there Is
a literal application of the blood of
Christ to the soul?" My negative re
ply then is my negative reply now.
The Bible statement agrees with all
physicians and all physiologists, and
all scientists, in saying that the blood
is the life, and In the Christian re
ligion it means simply that Christ’s
life was given for our life. Hence all
this talk of men who say the Bible
story of blood is disgusting, and that
they don’t want what they call a
“slaughter-house religion,” only shows
their Incapacity or unwillingness to
look through tlie figure of speech to
ward the tiling signified. The blood
that, on the darkest Friday the world
ever saw, oexed, or trickled, or poured
from the brow, and the side, and the
bands, and the feet of the Illustrious
Sufferer, back of Jerusalem, In a few
hours coagulated and dried up. and
forever disappeared; and if man had
depended on the application of the
literal blood of Christ, there would not
have been a soul saved for the last
eighteen centuries.
In order to understand this red word
of my text, we only have to exercise
as much common sense in religion as
we do in everything else. Pang for
[>ang, hunger for hunger, fatigue for
fatigue, tear for tear, blood for blood,
life for life, we see every day illustrat
ed. The act of substitution is no nov
elty, although I hear men talk as
t hnunli I tw, lil*. i . .t f'lifl . • ; (ft. »• I »l if
substituted for our suffering were
something abnormal, something dis
tressingly odd, something wildly ec
centric. a solitary episode in the
world's history; when I could take you
out into this city and before sundown
point you to live hundred cases of sub
stitution and voluntary suffering of one
in behalf of another.
At 2 o'clock tomorrow afternoon go
among the places of business or toil.
It will be no difficult thing for you to
find men who, by their looks, show you
that they are overworked. They are
prematurely old. They are hastening
rapidly toward their decease. They
have gone through crises in business
that shattered their nervous system,
and pulled on the brain. They have a
shortness of breath, and a pain in the
hack of the head, and at night an lu
somnla that alarms them. Why are
they drudging at business early and
late? For fun? No, It would be dif
ficult to extract any amusement out of
that exhaustion. Because they are
avaricious? In many cases no. Be
cause their own personal expenses are
lavish? No; a few hundred dollars (
would meet all their wants. The sim- r
pie fact is, the man is enduring all that
fatigue and exasperation, and wear and
tear, to keep his home prosperous.
There is an invisible line reaching
from that store, from that hank, from
that shop, from that sea folding, to a
qluet scene a few blocks, a few miles
away, and there Is the secret of that
business endurance. He is simply the
champion of a homestead, for which
he wins bread, and wardrobe, and edu
cation, and prosperity, and in such bat
tle ten thousand men fall. Of ten busi
ness men whom I bury, nine die of
overwork for others. Some sudden
disease finds them with no power of
resistance, and they are gone. Life for
life. Blood for blood. Substitution!
At 1 o’clock tomorrow morning, the
hour when slumber is most uninter
rupted and profound, walk amid the
dwelling houses of the city. Here and
there you will find dim light, because
it is the household custom to keep a
subdued light burning; hut most of the
houses from base to top are as dark as
though uninhabited. A merciful God
has sent forth the archangel ot sleep,
1. - . hi.. «•!»»» .... si... .....
Hut yonder Is a clear light burning,
and outside on a window casement a
glass or pitcher containing food for a
sick child; the food Is set In the fresh
air. This Is the sixth night that
mother has sat tip with that sufferer.
She has to the last point obeyed the
physician’s prescription, not giving a
drop too much or too little, or a mo
ment too soon or too late. She Is very
anxious, for she has hurled three chil
dren with the same disease and she
prays a»d weeps, each prayer and soh
ending with a kiss of the ]*l« cheek
Hy dint of kill.lot's, she gel* the little
one through the ordeal After It Is all
over, the mother le taken down Uralu
and nervous fever sets In. and oue day
she leaves the convalescent child with
I a mother's blessing and gives up to
loin the three departed ones In the
j kingdom of heaven Ufe for life Hub
, stllullun' The (ad Is that there are
alt Ule outlied number of mothers Who.
after they have navigated u large fatal
! tly of children through all the disease#
i of itifsiu v and got them fairly aiarted
up the dowering slope of lei*hood and
girlhood have uni* staetigih enough
, left tu die the* fair awa> n, * tic
tall It tun su nipt ton. *«.me iull It nerv
oua prostration some iall It Ihtenu’t
I lent nr maUthil indisposition hut I
call It mettytdum of the domestic etr
cte l.lfe fof life lib net for blood
M-tbet Mutton'
tie perhaps a mother lingers long
enough to eee a sou get on the wrong
rwad and hie foam** htndnese basomes
i rough rapt* when she ehpreesee anti*
. aty stwort bum Hu* *b* go** right on
Probing rwrefwlly after his appwrat. re
membertng bis svery btrtfctar wltb
I soma memento and wben be la htuwght
heme worn out wttb dtaupwtHm. nwrwea
him till he gets well and starts him
again, and hopes, and experts, and
prays, and counsels, and suffers, until
her strength gives out and she falls.
.She Is going, and attendants, bending
over her pillow, ask her If she haH any
message to leave, and she makes great
effort to say something, hut out of
three or four minutes of Indistinct ut
terance they can catch but three
words: ‘ My poor boy!" The simple
fact is she died for him. Life for life.
About thirty-eight years ago there
went forth from our northern and
southern homes hundreds of thousands
of men to do battle. All the poetry of
war soon vanished, and left them no
thing but the terrible prose. They
waded knee-deep In mud. They slept
in snuw-lianks. They marched till
their cut feet tracked the earth. They
were swindled out of the honest ra
tions, and lived on meat not fit for a
dog. They had Jaws fractured, and
eyes extinguished, and limbs shot
away. Thousands of them cried for
water as they lay on the Held the night
after the battle and got It not. They
were homesick, and received no mes
sage from thi Ir loved oiks. They died
in barns, In bushes, In ditches, the buz
zards of the summer heat the only at
tendants on their obsequies. No one
hut th§ Infinite Ood who knows every
thing. knows the ten-thousandth part
of the length, and breadth, and depth,
und height of anguish of the northern
and southern battlefields. Why did
these fathers leave their children and
go to the front, and why did these
young men, positioning the marriage
day, start out Into the probabilities
never coming bark? For a principle
they died. Life for life. Blood for
blood. Substitution!
But we need not go so far. What Is
that monument In the cemetery? B
Is to the doctors who fell In the south
ern epidemics. Why go? Were there
not enough sick to lie attended In these
northern latitudes? Oh, yes: but the
doctor puts a few medical hooks In his
valise, and sorie vials of medicine, and
leavpg his patients here In the bands
of other physicians, and takes the rail
train. Before he gels to the infected
regions he passes crowded rail-trains,
regular and extra, taking the (lying and
affrighted populations, lie arrives In
a city over which a great horror Is
brooding. He goes from couch to
couch, feeling the pulse and studying
symptoms and prescribing day after
day, night after night, until a fellow
physielau sajs: ‘‘Doctor, you had bet
ter go home and rest; you look mis
erable.” But he can not rest while so
many are suffering. On and on, until
some morning finds him in a delirium,
In which he talks of home, and then
rises and says lie must go and look
after those p"tient.s. He Is Jold to lie
down; but he lights his attendants un
til he falls back, and Is weaker and
weaker, and 'Mes for people with whom
he had no k'ashlp, and far away from
his own farni’", and Is hastily put away
in a stranger's tomb, and only the fifth
part, of a newspaper line tells us of his
sacrifice—his name Just mentioned
among five. Vet lie has touched the
furthest helfbt of sublimity In that
three weeks of humanitarian service.
He goes stra'ght as an arrow to the
bosom of Hi - who said; “I was sick
and ye vlsl cd me.” Life for life. (
Blood for bltod. Substitution!
I h" legal profession I see the same
pr' - yle of self-sacrlfl In 184*1,
William Freeman, a p uperized and
idiotic negro, was at Auburn, N. V.,
on trial for nurder. He had slain the
entire Van f est family. The foaming
wrath of the community could he kept
off him only by armed constables. Who
would volunteer to be his counsel? No
attorney wanted to sacrifice his popu
larity by such an ungrateful task. All
were silent save one, a young lawyer
with feeble voice, that could hardly he
heard outside the bar, pale and thin
and awkward. It was William H.
Seward, who saw that the prisoner was
idiotic and Irresponsible, and ought to
be put in an asylum, rather than put to
death, the heroic counsel uttering
these beautiful words;
”1 speak now In the hearing of a
people who have prejudiced prisoner
and condemned me for pleading In his
behalf. He Is a convict, a pauper, a
negro, will;' i.Jellect, sense, or emo
tion. My child with an affectionate
smile disarms mv care-worn face of Us
frown whenever I cross my threshold.
The beggar In the street obliges me to
give because he says, '(iod bless you!’
as I pass. My dog caresses me with
fondness If 1 will hut smile on him. My
horse rtscoy bos me when f fill ids
manger. What reward, what gratitude,
what sympathy and affection ran 1 ex
pert here? There the prisoner sits
Look at him. Look at the assemblage
around you. Listen to their Ill-sup
pressed censures ami excited tears,
and tell me where among my neighbors
or my fellow men, where, even in hi*
heart, I can expect to Itud u seutlment,
a thought, not tu say of reward or of
acknowledgment, or even of recog ill
lion lieutlemrn. you may think id
this evidence what you please, hrlug in
what verdict you ran, hut I asseverate
before heaven slid you that, lo the best
of niy knowledge and belief, the prt*
after si the bar does not at till* moment
know why It I* lhai my shadow falls
on >ou In-lead i f his own
The gallows got Its victim, hut the
post mortciu eiamlnailott of the poor
■ realore showed lo all the surgron*
and lo all Ihe world that the public
were wrong, and William II Howard
waa riaht. and lhai hard, atony »'«i
of ublw|u< in th<- Auburn mrt iwhu
waa the Aral step of Ihe slatra of fan**
up which he went to th* top, or to
wtthtn one step of the lop lhai last
dented him through the treachery of
tavern an poititce Nothing su>dlme«
waa aver seen In an Amarmn court
room than Wllllnm II dawaid ntth
o*u renard standing hetweau the full
woe populace and Ihe loath**** imn •
etle Auhat Hutton’
• • • a « •
It waa a atnai tt ittsg lay I tpnnt
on the battle field of Waterloo. Start
ing out with the morning train from
Brussels. Belgium, we arrived In about
an hour on that famous cpot. A no.i
of one who was in the battle, and w 1
bad heard from his father a tbousam
times the whole socne recited, accom
panied us over the field. There stoot
the old Hougomont Chateau, the walls
dented, and scratched, and broken, and
shattered by grape shot and cannon
ball. There Is the well in which three
hundred dying and dead were pitched.
There is the chapel with the head of
the Infant Christ shot off. There are
the gates at which, for many hours.
Kngllsh and French armies wrestled.
Yonder were the one hundred and six
ty guns of the Kngllsh, and the two
hundred and fifty guns of the French.
Yonder was the ravine of Ohaln,
where the French cavalry, not knowing
there was a hollow in the ground, roll
ed over and down, troop after troop,
tumbling Into one awful mass of suf
fering, hoof of kicking horses against
brow and breast of captains and colon
els and private soldiers, the human and
the beastly groan kept up until, the
day uflcr, all was shoveled under be
cause of the malodor arising In that
hot month of June.
"There,” said our guide, "the High
land regiments lay down on their faces
waiting for the moment to spring upon
the foe. In that orchard twenty-five
hundred men were cut to pieces. Hf>«
stood Wellington with while lips, and
up that knoll rode Marshal N'ey on
his sixth horse, five having been shot,
under him. Here the ranks of the
French broke, and Marshal Ney, with
his boot slashed of a sword, and his hat
off, and his face covered with powder
and blood, tried to rally his troops as
he cried, 'Come and see how a marshal
of France C ■* on the battle field.*
From yonder direction Grouchy was
expected for tin- French reinforce
ments, but lie came not. Around these ^
woods Bluchcr was looked for to rein
force the Kngllsh, and just In time ho
came up. Yonder Is the field where
Napoleon sti od, his arms through the
reins of th>* horae'H bridle, dazed and
Insane, trying to go back.” Scene of
a battle that went on from twenty-five
minutes to twelve o'clock, on the 18th
of June, until 4 o’clock, when the Eng
lish seemed defeated, and their com
mander cried out, "Hoys, you can't
think of g.\ ig wuy? Remember old
England!” and the tides turned, and at
8 o’clock In the evening the man of
destiny, who was called by bis troops
Old Two Hundred Thousand, turned
away with broken heart, and the fate
of centuries was decided.
No wonder a great mound has been
reared there, hundreds of feet high—a
mound at tie expense of millions of
dollars and many years In rising, and
on the top Is the great Relglan lion of
bronze, and a grand old lion it Is. Hut
our great Waterloo whs la Palestine.
There came a day when all bell rode
up, led by ‘ o’!y'’n, an the Captain
of our salvation confronted them alone.
The Rider on the white horse of the
Apocalypse going out against the Black
horse cavalry of death, end (he bat
talions of the demoniac, and the myr
midons of darkness. From 12 o'clock
at noon to 3 o'clock In the afternoon
the greatest battle of the universe
went on. Eternal destinies were being
decided. All the arrows of hell pierced
our Chieftain, and battle axps struck
him, until brow and cheek and shoul
der ami band and foot were Incarna
dined with oozing life; but he fought
on until he gave a final stroke with
sword from Jehovah's buckler, and the
commander-in-chief of hell and all his
forces fell back in everlasting ruin,
and the victory is ours. And on the
mound that celebrates the triumph we
plant this day two figures, not in
bronze, or iron, c; sculptured marble,
but two figures of living light, the lion
of Judah's tribe and the Lamb that was
Part It Might Play in it War
(Sihriiltii I' bf>v Ilf Iho Meulilnw.
ranean, was Incorporated with the
Spanish crown In 1502, hut in 1701 fell
Into tiie hands of Kngluud. who lias
I eld it ever s'nce. While It is not a
Spanish fortification, if occupies tho
best strategic point on the southern
coast of Spain. By Us position Gibral
tar must be figured upon either as a
strong ally or a dangerous enemy lu
any attack upon the Spanish seaboard,
says the Boston ilerald. The rock,
which is 1.400 feet high, and about six
miles in circumference. U honey-comh
with batteries Strong foils have been
built at the water port or north end
of the Hue > 4|t, Mt line*, d .Staff and
at Itosla. These are armed with elght
1-eh-tun guns in shtlded embrasures.
The prime of Wales. In IH7U, laid the
corner stone of the Alexandrine bat
tery. which carried leceutly a thirty
eight ton gun Klve years sgo thirty
heavy guns, 1m hiding two loo ton
guns, were in ihmUIoii at various p outs,
hut since that time the summit of the
risk has been thoroughly equipped
Wllh modern guns of sufficient power
to command the whole circuit of land
and sea around lilhraligr The upper
purl of Ihr risk cannot Ire visited ity
ilvttiins and only by litirub ufft. et*
under sirh i reg iiaiiuns The bsri.ur
It IMdlttervutl) I II i Olftt nit 4 4
dtM'k yard fully etiulpped tor the re
pairing of nien of war 1 we rock to
•eld to be garrisoned with ear Mildo-1s.
Hit the opposite Afrit aw »hure Jipain
owns rents which wllh Kngtawd *
tlilo slier might It* made is i|<* ihw (
rnuiuo tu ibe Vlolli litmus and
Stake It iwtpi'.gsabie I ‘"Wig la ebleffy
w*ed as a penal i ttetey and ta well
ft mini by psMittoo on a piumg r«** k
• Ilk ptuipo uwg little
Theta ata tbtaa mows as assnt a*
ale* la tka igtl af a * at •• ikw *'*
lb lb* hums* aagda and tiWU.