HomeMy WebLinkAboutExeter Advocate, 1909-07-22, Page 6THE GLORY OF A NATION
Whoever Helps Lives to Worthier Ends
Ennobles the Life of All the People
And the desert shall rejoice and
blossom as the rose." -Isaiah
xx>;v. 1.
The glory of a nation depends on
its gifts to its own day. We may
please ourselves with boastings of
the past, but, after all, in the long
test of the ages this only counts,
in what way have we enriched the
earth, in what way have w•o made
its moral and intellectual deserts
to blossom as the rose, and how far
have we converted its parched
ground into pools?
The greatness of a people depends
not on what they have, but on what
they give, not on what they may
store up within their borders, but
en what they may share with
others. The gifts we can give to
our world will not be in gold or
silver, not in what wo list in our
export repssrts. Ultimately these
gifts can be measured in one simple
way the kind of manhood and wo-
manhood we are giving to the
world. Every nation must play its
part in the world's affairs, but the
great part we all have to play is
that of educating the whole human
family into
FINER AND FULLER LIVING.
No people can ever be greater
hi fact than they are in faith and in
ideals. Tho people make the na-
tion. What we aro our nation is.
Our greatness is wholly a matter of
cur real worth, our worthiness. All
splendor and pomp, all parade and
display of power that is any more
than the expression of the real life
and work of a people is a fool's
mockery.
Sometimes we think that the days
aro past when a man had a chance
to play a man's part in the affairs
of the nation, when be might,
moved by splendid heroism, lay
down his life for his people. Our
day needs men who will lay down
their lives not on some altar of im-
mediate sacrifice, but on the field
of long and toilsome service.
There is still all a man's work,
indeed there is holy and divine work
to be done in making the nation
hat it might be, in serving the
principles and securing the ideals
which for us make national great-
ness. People have been groat in
the measure that they have forgot-
ten all self-seeking and everything
beside in serving some great prin-
ciple, in living and dying fur some
high aim.
Our fathers gave themselves to
great principles; their sons must
do even harder se. vice, for they
must toil in quiet ways, without
the contagion of the mob and the
plaudits of the throngs. We can
set first the things that are first,
honor, truth, justice, and love. We
can, if we will, make sacrifices that
the ages will recognize as just as
truly heroic as any that have been
made on
BLOODSTAINED FIELDS.
Eternity will reveal heroes in un-
dreamt of places, plain mothers
who sacrifice social ambitions and
the temptations of life that they
might train their children aright,
giving not their own lives alone,
but giving to the world other lives
rich in usefulness and character
worth.
Though we compassed all the
earth in our possessions we could
be no greater than our souls;
though we possessed no more than
little rocky Greece or barren Pal-
estine, no measure could be mado
of our worth if wo but give the
world such ideals, thoughts, aspira-
tions, and visions as have sprung
from these little lands.
This is the finest, highest, holi-
est, and most truly religious service
that we may know, this is that
which sets each one into the glori-
cus company of the great of all
ages, just to live such a life and
give such measure of service that
the whole world is richer, that men
think of better things and live for
nobler ends And the flowers of love
spring in the deserts of old desires.
HENRY F. COPE.
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL
INTERNATIONAL LESSON,
JULY 2a.
Paul's Second Missionary Journey
-(C'ont'd.) .Athens. Acts 17:
16-24. Golden Text, John
1:'24.
. Athens in St. Paul's Day. Driven
from Berea, as we learned in our
last lesson, Paul carne to Athens in
Oreece. As be w't..Ked from the
Piraeus, where he landed, along the
neeroad to the city, he saw raised
at intervals altars to the unknown
gods.
As the city of Athens came into
his s iew• his soul must have been
thrilled with the deepest emotions.
Ile hacl seen Jersualem, the most
influential city in the world for re-
ligion ; he longed to go to Rome,
which stood ahuve all others in
power, in law, in imperial sway, the
capital of the world ; but now he
was to gaze upon the city which
then stood and still stands en-
throned above all ethers for in-
tellectual suptemecy, for litera-
ture, ort, architecture, and phil-
osophy.
Its situation was one of the most
beautiful le the world. Within its
walls rose a double group of hills.
The Acropolis, Mars' Hill (Areo-
pagus), The Pnyx on which De-
mosthenes spoke his orations, the
Museum Hill, tho Hill of the
Nymphs. all crowned with buildings
of the most perfect architecture.
Below these were the market. the
forum. the great square south of
the .%rcopngus, and the Acropolis,
like the piazza or square of St.
Mark's at Venice, surrounded by
the most beautiful buildings and
busiest stores in the city.
II. Paul Begins Itis Work in
Athens.- -Vs. 16-21. While Paul
waited for Silas and Timothy to
come from lteren, before proceeding
farther. er beginning sl.ecial work
in a r:t w a,i.l peruliar field, his
spirit was stirred in him. "urge(}
on with a sharp goad," to give the
gospel to a t ity holly given to
idolatry.
His work ens with fur classes
of person'.
1. The ,lens. ire went first to
the s} nagogue, as was his usual
custom. and rens..ned, discoursed,
(onsersrd (not disputed) with them.
2. Devout persons, proselytes to
the .leeish religion. who accepted
the Scriptures. and believed in the
one true Goll.
3. Epicurean Philosophers, dis-
ciples of Epicurus, known as "The
Sehool of the Garden." Their
tea.•hing was that the abject of liv-
ing was pleasure, enjoyment in
the broadest sense including the
whole of life. in w Dish teaching
there was some truth. But in
Paul'. tome, in spite of the saki
guards of Epicurus, his teaching de-
generated "into a mere series of
prudential calculations or a mere
indulgence of the senses and ap-
petites" ; and "his folIoe><;ers were
given to gross sensualism."
4. The Stoics, whose school was
called the Porch an dthe Academy.
Thee- were pantheists believing
that God was the soul of the world,
that everything was governed by
fate, that there was no perpetual
individual immortality. "Virtue
was its own reward, and vice its
own punishment. Pleasure was no
good, and pain no evil." It is well
to note the tenets of these philoso-
phers in connection with Paul's
address, to see how be answers
them by his positive teaching.
IIi. Paul's Address Before the
University of Athens. -Vs. 22-31.
A Gracious Introduction. 22. Ye
men of Athens. The Athenians
were proud of their city-, and could
Ise called by no higher title. So
Demosthenes, the greatest orator
in all history, addressed them. I
perceive that in all things yc are
too superstitious. An unfortunate
translation, not, in accord with
either Paul's courtesy or his skill
as an orator, or as a Christian seek-
ing to gain converts. The ].reek
means "more full of reverence for
deities than the other Greeks, very
religious,•' alluding to the great
number of idols in the city, and t.,
the fact that the two great phil-
osophical sects, Epicureans and
Stoics, were deeply concerned with
religious questions.
IV. The Effects Produced by
Paul's Address. --Vs. 32-3-1. 1. 32.
Some mockld. The teaching seetn-
ed absurd to thein.
2. Some refused to decide. We
will hear thee again. Like Felix,
they would wait for a more con
venient reason. They could en-
dure almost any strange theories,
but when it. ensile to giving up their
sins, and to a change of life, they
rebelled.
3. A few accepted the truth, re-
pented, and became disciples of
Jesus. 34. 1►ionysius the Aren- Hemsley angrily, limping to his
pagite. that is, a member of the l feet "For what reason have you
learned council before whom Paul come Lere, if you've nothing bet -
had preached. Damaris. Nothing ter, wiser, kinder to say 1'
further is known concerning her,
"The p»ri,u,.o for which I'wc
but she must have been n woman of come hire, my son, is, as i'ce told
distinction and power. A church A depleer purpose, and I
was founded here later, and the
Parthenon became a Christian thought I might kill t birds with
temple. one atone, old Wade responded
blandly. "i've not conic to qur.r-
rel, though 1'II confess to tieing
UIS('IPt.iNI?. predisposed by n deep 'tense of ir-
Nearsighted Lady --"The boy who ritation. 1 want to see if wo can't
is trying to tie that can to that apply a practical remedy for your
poor dog's tail ought to be thrashed
within an inch of his life -the horrid
little brute."
Maid --"it's your boy, mum."
I.rnly-'•my boy 1"
Ma"cI Yes, mum." besiness. I r.sse .c.e, to e?:. e.
Lady -"Tell him if he'll at( p 1 11 w ith n for ic•rt rnnt'er '1'1,• r. fore.
give him some cake." if sou u' t •ny . y ur I s. i..t �.•;,
After a man has turned down t• -o (erten. c .: e"t :sise.a. tie! ,•.,u .,
or th-ee o ,rtunitics nee1 .
pl„ they begin (;, � .. - '! j..l ,• U ., sl... (; ,1•
to dodge him. to ,..: :, ,:fbl3 l 13 to•
reit CAW,:
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I.
"Mr. Wade in?"
Josephs, the mild -looking junior
clerk, looked at the big, grey-hair-
ed visitor considcringly. It had
been one of his duties the last few
weeks to furin some idea whether
cauers on Hemsley Wade were cli-
ents or duns before admitting that
Hemsley was in. He decided now
that the stranger scarcely had the
appearance of a bill -collector or an
irate creditor; at the same time, the
visitor was a stranger, and might
be on trouble bent.
"If you will give me your card,
I'll see," he said non-committally.
"I'm Montague Wade, his
father," said the elderly visitor,
casually.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" apolo-
gized Josephs, at once hurrying to
the inner office.
Hemsley Wade came out his room
hastily; smiling, both hands extend-
ed, to greet his father.
"Why, dad!" ho exclaimed,
looking thoughtfully into Montague
Wade's face. "What's brought you
to town 1 Come into my room !
Josephs, I'rn out, to everybody but
Mr. Marvale, and, if he comes, ask
him to wait."
Old Wade shook his son's hand
abstractedly, and allowed himself
to be drawn into the inner office.
Ho looked round the comfortable
apartment curiously as he advanced
towards the table raider the win-
dow, and Heinsley shut. the door.
"Well, how are you?" inquired
Wade the elder, and sat down.
"Oh, I'm all right ,thanks !" re-
turned Hemsley hopefully, and
took a chair. "Glad to see you
looking so well. You were not well
when you wrote me last, you'll
remember. What's brought you
up?"
"Two things, Heinsley," said Mr.
Wade, looking at his son fixedly
and crossing his legs. "I hear
you're on the point of bankruptcy,
and that you're practically engaged
to a most undsirable young wo-
man."
Hemsley flushed, and his hands
clenched under the screening of the
table. He drew a hard breath, for
his father's tone was a brutally
offensive as were his words.
"You have no right to speak in
that way of a girl you don't know,
sir," he said, as calmly as possible.
"As to my financial difficulties -un-
less you've an inclination to re-
lieve them, I don't see that it will
serve any good purpose for us to
discuss then. I'm not in the state
of mind just now to accept a verbal
castigation lying down."
"Don't lose your temper,
please," said old Wade. Re-
member, I am your father, and that
I am deeply concerned in the pos-
sibility that our name may bo dis-
graced by bankruptcy or a mesal-
linnco. Aro you actually engag-
ed 1"
"Yes," answered Hemsley, re -
seating himself.
"Actually eng.iged-eh 1" mut-
tered old Wade, and moved un-
comfortably in his chair. "And
does this chorus -girl, or ewhatever
she is, know that you're ruined 1"
"No."
"That your father is wealthy?"
"Yes."
Montague Wade laughed slily.
Hemsley stared at hint, his lips
tweehing.
"Father," he exclaimed, leaning
forward suddenly and laying bis
clenched fists on the table before
him, "this is no tiine for you to
come to me in your present framo of
mind. I can't stand it. My posi-
tion is desperate; every moment I'm
expecting the bankruptcy petition
to come along. For the love you
bore me as a child, for the affection
you Dae a borne me as a maul, don't
scoff at the one thing that makes
my position endurable-Lettic!"
"1'm afraid you'll find that 'Let -
tie' will make your position worse
when she knows what your position
is," answered old Wade wisely.
"If she don't chuck you, it'11 be be-
cause she knows I'm your father,
and you're my only son."
''Cut it, sir- rut it !" cried
!1 -
complication of diseases. :1s far as
i understand think?, this business
was doing very well until you got
involved by experiments with that
t. rpec!o; 1h: t crit pled pati, eh'
You'ee rtam .1 yo:tr legit: slate
•
sand pounds, on one considera-
tion."
"If that is a fatherly offer, mado
in a spirit of fatherly generosity, [
accept most gratefully, " said Hems -
Icy deliberately ; "but it it is un
offer for mw promise to give up Let -
tie, I decline it absolutely !"
Old Wade rose; put on his hat,
and began to button his jacket.
"I think that is all I had to do
in town," lie muttered consider-
ingly, and held out his hand.
Hemsley grasped it quickly, and
got on his feet.
"Father," he exclaimed eagerly,
"don't bo prejudiced! You haven't
seen her; you don't know—"
"I have seen her, I think. I
was at the Kemble Theatre last
night, and she was pointed out to
me."
"And doesn't your knowledge of
character enable you to judge that
she's a good girl 1"
"My knowledge of worldly affairs
enables me to judge that Montague
Wade's cheque for ten thousand is
a good cheque," answered old Wade
quietly. "You -you're thirty -
throe, old enough to know what
sort of girl, woman, or chit you
most fancy for a wife, and I'm not
disposed to discuss your judgment.
At the same time, l'tn old enough
to know what to do with my money.
You understand?"
"Perfectly!" returned his son
huskily. "I need never expect an-
other penny from you unless I give
up Lettie-which I shall never do.'
"Yes, you understand. I leave
ray offer open for a week. If with-
in that period you caro to call upon
me for the cheque, on the condition
named, you shall have it.; if not, I
shall take the distasteful step of
informing the girl that you're
bankrupt, and entirely without
expectations, which is another
mans to the same end -namely,
saving you from the toils of a for-
tune-hunting chorus -girl. I mean
it."
"Oh, I don't doubt you mean
it!" Hemsley answered bitterly
"But I'ni not a penny he' -ter or
worse off for your bribee or
threats."
"Yes, you are, young hot -head.
You're better, because you know
now, while before you could only
have supposed. Which door do
I—Oh, this one! Good-bye! A
week, Hemsley 1"
He opened the door leading to the
outer office and went out.
Hemsley threw himself into his
chair, and sat inertly, crushed.
The last straw had been laid upon
his back. I[e fell into a brown
study -or, rather, a dull, fitful at-
tempt to review the situation, and
find a glimmer of hope in any cir-
cumstance. Ile scarcely felt, any
resentment against his father, be-
cause he understood him -knew
that he was sincere in his prejudice
and honest in his determination.
Hensley knew all along that his
engagement to Lottie Somerton
would meet his father's moat dog-
ged opposition, and, for that rea-
son, he had planned to marry her,
and take her off the stage, and in-
troduce her to Montague Wade as
what she was by nature -a charm-
ing little lady -not .ns what she
had been for a livelihood. In which
circumstances, being unprejudiced,
his father would accept her -critic-
ally, perhaps, scetically, it might
even be, but, open to conversion.
But his financial difficulties had
prevented the execution of his
plan. And now it was ton late.
Now he had to choose between Let -
tie and a fortune of something like
,£30,000 -possibly it might be s
great deal more, for his father had
always lived n quiet, country life,
and the way in which he had spoken
of a cheque for J:IO,OUO suggested
that it would be a comparatively
easy matter to arrange without em-
barrassing him.
Then lie was interrupted in his
bewildering thoughts --this time by
Josephs, who camp in and looked
at hint with scared eyes, and held
out a card.
Ilemsley took the card, but his
hands trembled so he could not
read it.
"Who is it, Josephs'" he asked,
blinking.
"A clerk from Andreeea, itinton,
.E Gutley's," said Josephs compas-
sionately.
Hemsley swung half -round, and
dropped into a chair. It had eomo
-the petition --within an hour
of his father's visit.
"Show him in, Josephs."
11.
Lottie was very white, and her
pretty eyes, which were generally
so tender and thoughtful, were
bright and restlesswith excitement.
She leant back against tho head
of the shabby sofa, her fingers dug
deeply into its padding.
Hemsley watched her eagerly,
hungry for her answer. The pause
seemed interminable.
"1'm sery fond of you." she said
at length, speaking with evident
effort ; "hut not, eno►igh to enjoy
poverty with you, Ilemsley. And,
it world not he fair to expect you
to 81101W you to r• fine your
father's offer. and quarrel with
him. for my sake. Love is sweet,
b •t n►.,r;e3 i= r'• rail."
tt hi'c ,he .1., i.e. anger and re.
,i.•,. !.'q eyes
1'h.t; . : , i,.n your rtn-
Ca.e,• 10. ,.l."i ;.r ,•r ,•!e'. aftnr,.
•tr,svglini .i t.• •e f r I,: hr (sath.
`rue tt,'d.t.0 rr. ae.,;,l:rg his
fixed gaze. "You chuck me!" he
added bitterly, with scorn. "He
said you would! 1 bhall not plead
with you 1"
t$he looked at him nut of the tail
of her eye, and winced.
"Of course ho did. It was his
policy to lar you with the brush of
his own prejudice; but be didn't
know. 1 might have bold you to
the engagement,' she returned ;
"but I don't. You can go to him
and tell him that you Dawe broken
with me."
"But 1 have not ! You have jilted
ate!" he exclaimed natty.
"We won't argue about that,"
she responded coldly, and moved
from tho head of tho sofa and sat
down.
"You're perfectly justified, of
course, he said, turning to her
and speaking rapidly, "and I'm
bound in honor to release you,
without plea or protest. I courted
you as a man of comfortable means,
with large expectations. You're
perfectly justified. 1 shall see my
father to -night and sell my pledge
for his draft.'
"I will return your letters," he
added, and went towards the
door.
"Thank you !"
"Good-bye!"
"Good-bye 1" she ech2ed. Sho
heard him speak to her landlady,
whom she met in the passage, and
go uot, shutting the street door
after him quietly. "Good-bye!"
she repeated.
She had a rehearsal that after-
noon of a musical comedy for a
provincial tour, and she was glad
of it. -glad to have to work -ardu-
ous work -to take her thoughts
-from her disappointment. Though
it scarcely did that; but it blurred
the figures of her imagination, and
inspired her with some hope of the
future, for in the tour she was to
have a speaking -part.
Her salary would be the same as
she received as a chorus -girl in
town, but her status in the profes-
sion would bo improved. It wan
the second rung of the ladder, and
in her mind's eye she worked up the
possibilities lost. And after the re-
hearsal she had to attend at the
Kemblo Theatre, to sing and look
pretty.
She threw her whole soul into the
matter, and succeeded. Ilut while
she sang, her fancy pictured Hems -
ley, and an indefinite form, which
represented his fattier, sitting over
their after-dinner wine, and her
voice almost. broke. She was still
a chorus -girl, with the heartrend-
ing struggles before her; still "one
of a crowd" ; still a face and figure
to be looked at, a voice to be heard ;
no longer a woman of flesh and
blood and mind, to be loved.
At last the curtain rang down,
and she was free one more till the
following evening. Free ! At lib-
erty to experience to the full that
dull, strangling sentiment which is
loneliness in despair.
For the first tune she paused on
the dirty pavement outside the
stage -door, hesitating which way to
turn, instead of hurrying straight
home, as usual. The right ea)
home to her lodgings seemed the
wrong way anywhere to -night.
"Are you Miss Somerton, may 1
ask I"
Sho looked round, and saw in
Montague Wade's big face and fig-
ure a stranger, who in some inde-
finable way reminded her of some-
one she knew.
"Yes," she said sillily, on her
guard instantly, and looked over
her shoulder to assure herself that
the doorkeeper was at hand.
"I ata Montague Wade," be said
pointedly. ''1 should like to speak
to you confidentially, if I might."
"I don't think Montague Wade
and Letlie Somerton can have any
common interest to discuss at this
time of night, sir !" she retorted,
her self -loving kindling her anger
at the announcement of his name.
He was obviously surprised by
the uncompromising attitude, and
irritated, too; but he pressed her
to accord him an interview, and,
finally, writhing urulcr his per-
sistence, she consented to eater
a neighboring cafe, where she bad
often supped with Hemsley after
the play. For form's sake, they
ordered coffee.
"I have sought this opportunity
to thank yon for relearting my son
from his engagement, Miss .Somer-
ton," said old %1'a.te, in an under-
tone, with a trace of sarcasm. "I
feel it• is due to you to adroit you've
laid me under an obligation. 1 saw
him to -night, and he was quite
frank, giving you the entire --the
entire credit of cancelling tho en-
gagement. Of course, as he ex
planned to you, I presume" -ho
smiled in tho merest pause, and
shot a sly look at her har(1, white
face. Sho was listening intently,
every nerve tense ---"you would
have married a beggar if you had
insisted on marrying him. At the
Annie time, I fancy you may feel you
have made a sacrifice in enabling
him to conform to his father's
wishes, and you would free my
mind of self -reproaches, and give
me real pleasure, if you would
permit me to make you some com-
pensation for your disappoint-
ment. 1 thought -you won't be
offended, I hope -but I thought, if
i could induce you to accept five
hundred pounds, we might all re-
gard the affair as having been
brought to a satisfactory conclu-
sion."
"Did your son suggest that?"
asked l.ettie .
"No," I,t' said hurriedly --''oh,
no! No! ( ' . tait►ly not '"
"Thank Heaven for that
exclaimed hoarsely, looking al-
most fiercely at.the oldman.
"I wished him to think I had cared
for !(int wale money, and would not
care for him without ; hut 1 tried --
1 tried and prayed ho would not
think so cruelly, so-so brutally of
nie as that I did not care fur him
at all !"
(il►, be calm, my clear !" said
1Va(lo soothingly. "We under-
stand! Of course--"
"You understand ---you under-
stand'!" she said, panting with
anger and contempt. "You think
you understand why I did it, and
you offer the money?" She leant
forward towards him, her anger
flashing from her tear-filled eyes,
and beat softly on the edge of the
table uncontrollable passion. "I
did it because I loved him, just. as
I would have worked for him and
starved for him because I love hint!
And you offer me money!"
She leapt to her feet, and, before
he could recover his presence of
mind, brushed past him, and swept
out into the street.
Ho rose quickly as she disap-
peared, and, throwing half-a-
crown down upon the table, rushed
out of the cafe after her.
"Hi!" he shouted, catching sight
of her swiftly -moving figure twenty
yards down tho street, and, in his
amazement, forgetting himself, and
oblivious to the attention he was
attracting. "Hi 1"
A quick-witted policeman, whom
Lettie had flounced past, scenting
a case of pickpocket, or something
akin, prop►ptly gave chase to the
unbreeding girl. In a few seconds
he had caught her by the arm,
swung her round, and was walking
her back to meet Montague Wade.
At sight. of her in custody the old
man hurried forward.
"Touch her, if you dare! Don't
touch her !" he stormed. "What
e—"
"Ain't you lost nothing?" de-
manded the surprised constable.
"No !" snapped Montague. And,
taking her hand quietly, he drew
her away from ttte little knot of
people who had gathered round.
"Come along, my dear !" he said
briskly. "It was my faulty -entire -
1y my fault ! I loss myself !"
"It's all right now !" he contin-
ued soothingly, yet quickly. "It's
all right r.ow ! We understand now 1
I was an old fool, toy dear ; but
how should I know it was liko
that t Women are so beguiling,
and young men are so easily be-
guiled. I love my boy, and I was
afraid for him ! I'm a bit olds
fashioned, perhaps. But it's all
right now, my dear ; though I shall
insist on your leaving the stage.
You'll do that., to please me, won't
you? And it'kl please Hemsley,
too. I know you'll do that, for
you lovo him, as much as I do. My
dear, you melted me! Let's look
for a cab! I'll drive you home!
We can't get hold of flemsley and
let him know to -night, but I'll try
-aa soon as I've .seen you home,
I'll try! Where d'you live? Hi,
cabby! Cab -hi !"
She got into the hansom with
chaldlike obedience, dazed by Ler
wonderment, bewildered by his
volubility; but as he threw him-
self on the seat beside her, and,
taking her hand, patted it soothing-
ly, tears gushed from her eyes.
"1 feel for the moment that I
love you Letter than Ilemsley !"
she said hysterically.
"Pooh! Nonsense !'' he exclaim-
ed; but he was immensely pleased,
nevertheless. -London Answers.
FAIR LX( f1.1N(;E.
"You are in the employ of that
millionaire up on the hill, aren't
you I" snapped the sharp -faced wo-
man who ran the butter -and -egg
shop.
''Yes, ,on'run.'' responded tha
man in the white apron, "and I
want two pounds .,f butter for my
master's table. He said he'd send
to town after it, only the roads aro
So bad."
"He did. eh i We11. we are not
particular about his trade. Did
you tell him I said his rm,ney was
tainted 1''
"!ri(Ieect 1 (11(1.''
"And what did he sav'•"
"Haid so was your blamed old
butter."
USEFUL.
"Life is largely made up of il-
lusions," said the eemplaceut cynic.
"Yes," answered Miss Cayenne,
"and they serve a beneficent pur-
pose. if there were no illusions,
there would be far less sclf-
eatectn.''
When charged with being dis-
orderly and asked what he had to
say for himself, the nian in the
dock gazed pensively at the magis-
trate, smoothed down a remnant
of grey hair, and said :•-Your honor,
man's humanity to man makes
countless thousands mourn I'm
not as debased as Swift. as pro
fligate as Byron, as cli•;ipatcd as
Pee, or as debauched as -"
''That will dn." thundered tits
magistrate. "Sven ,lays' .Ina,
officer, take s Hat of those name$
and run 'em in. They're as bad to
lot es be ill 1'1-