OBLIVION’S DEFEATS. REV. DR. TALMAGE PREACHES A SERMON OF CONSOLING INFLUENCE.

Today and One Hundred Years From Now--The Necessity of Death and Decay--Time Is Past, and It Is an Everlasting Now.

BROOKLYN, Nov. 12.--Rev. Dr. Tal-

mage today preached a sermon of unusual and marvelous consolation to the usual throngs after they had sung:

There is no sorrow that heaven cannot care.

The subject was "Oblivion and Its De-

feats." The texts selected were Job xxiv, 20, "He shall be no more remembered," and Psalms cxii, 6, "The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance."

"Oblivion and Its Defeats" is my sub-

ject today. There is an old monster that swallows down everything. It crunches individuals, families, communities, states, nations, continents, hemispheres, worlds. Its diet is made up of years, of centuries, of cycles, of millenniums, of eons. That monster is called by Noah

Webster and all the other dictionarians oblivion. It is a steep down which ev-

erything rolls. It is a conflagration in which everything is consumed. It is a dirge in which all orchestras play and a period at which everything stops. It is the cemetery of the human race. It is the domain of forgetfulness. Oblivion!

At times it throws a shadow over all of us, and I would not pronounce it today if I did not come armed in the strength of the eternal God on your behalf to attack it, to rout it, to demolish it.

OBLIVION'S WORK. Why, just look at the way the families of the earth disappear! For awhile they are together, inseparable and to each other indispensable, and then they part. Some by marriage, going to establish other homes, and some leave this life, and a century is long enough to plant a family, develop it, prosper it and obliterate it. So the generations vanish.

Walk up Broadway, New York; State street, Boston; Chestnut street, Phila-

delphia; The Strand, London; Princess street, Edinburgh; Champ Elysees, Paris; Unter den Linden, Berlin, and you will meet in this year 1893 not one person

who walked there in the year 1793. What ingulfment! All the ordinary efforts at perpetuation are dead failures. Walter Scott's "Old Mortality" may go round with his chisel to recut the faded epi-

taphs on tombstones, but Old Oblivion has a quicker chisel with which he can cut out a thousand epitaphs while "Old Mortality" is cutting in one epitaph.

Whole libraries of biographies devoured of bookworms or unread of the rising generations.

All the signs of the stores and ware-

houses of great firms have changed, un-

less the grandsons think that it is an advantage to keep the old sign up because the name of the ancestor was more com-

mendatory than the name of the descend-

ant. The city of Rome stands today, but dig down deep enough and you come to another Rome, buried, and go down still further and you will find a third Rome. Jerusalem stands today, but dig down deep enough and you will find a Jerusalem underneath, and go on and deeper down a third Jerusalem. Alexandria on the top of an Alexandria, and the second on top of the third. Many of the ancient cities are buried 30 feet deep, or 50 feet deep, or 100 feet deep. What was the matter? Any special calamity? No. The winds and waves and sands and flying dust are all undertakers and gravediggers, and if the world stands long enough the present Brooklyn and New York and London will have on top of them other Brooklyns and New Yorks and Londons, and only after digging and boring and blasting will the archaeologist of far distant centuries come down as far as the highest spires and domes and turrets of our present American and European cities.

Call the roll of the armies of Baldwin I, or of Charles Martel, or of Marlbor-

ough, or of Mithridates, or of Prince Frederick, or of Cortez, and not one answer will you hear. Stand them in line and call the roll of the 1,000,000

men in the army of Thebes. Not one will answer. Stand them in line, the 1,700,000 infantry and the 200,000 cavalry of the Assyrian army under Ninus, and call the roll. Not one answer. Stand in line the 1,000,000 men of Sesostris, the 1,200,000 men of Artaxerxes at Cunaxa, the 2,641,000 men under Xerxes at Thermopylae, and call the long roll. Not one answer.

At the opening of our civil war the men of the northern and southern armies were told that if they fell in battle their

names would never be forgotten by their country. Out of the million men who fell in battle or died in military hospitals, you cannot call the names of 1,000, nor the names of 500, nor the names of 100, nor the names of 10. Oblivion! Are the feet of the dancers who were at the ball of the Duchess of Richmond at Brussels the night before Waterloo all still? All still. Are the ears that heard the guns of Bunker Hill all deaf? All deaf. Are the eyes that saw the coronation of George III all closed? All closed. Oblivion! A hundred years from now there will not be a being on this earth that knew we ever lived.

WELCOME TO HIS MEAL.

In some old family record a descendant studying up on the ancestral line may spell out our name, and from the nearly faded ink, with great effort, find that some person of our name was born somewhere between 1810 and 1890, but they will know no more about us than we know about the color of a child's eyes born last night in a village in Patagonia. Tell me something about your great-grandfather.

What were his features? What did he do? What year was he born? What year did he die? And your great-grandmother? Will you describe the style of the hat that she wore, and how did she and your great-grandfather get on in each other's companionship? Was it March weather or June?

Oblivion! That mountain surge rolls over everything. Even the pyramids are dying. Not a day passes but there is chiseled off a chip of that granite. The sea is triumphing over the land, and what is going on at Coney Island is go-

ing on all around the world, and the con-

tinents are crumbling into the waves. And while this is transpiring on the outside of the world the hot chisel of the internal fire is digging under the foundation of the earth and cutting its way out toward the surface. It surprises me to hear people say they do not think the world will finally be burned up, when all the scientists will tell you that it has for ages been on fire.

Why, there is only a crust between us and the furnaces inside raging to get

out. Oblivion! The world itself will roll into it as easily as a schoolboy's india rubber ball rolls down a hill, and when our world goes it is so interlocked by the law of gravitation with other worlds that they will go, too, and so far from having our memory perpetuated by a monument of Aberdeen granite in this world, there is no world in sight of our strongest telescope that will be a sure pediment for any slab of commemoration of the fact that we ever lived or died at all. Our earth is struck with death. The axletree of the constellations will break and let down the populations of other worlds. Stellar, lunar, solar mortality. Oblivion! It can swallow and will swallow whole galaxies of worlds as easily as a crocodile takes down a frog.

Yet oblivion does not remove or swallow anything that had better not be removed or swallowed. The old monster is welcome to his meal. This world would long ago have been overcrowded if it had not been for the merciful removal of nations and generations. What if all the books had lived that were ever written and printed and published? The libraries would by their immensity have obstructed intelligence and made all research impossible. The fatal epidemic of books was a merciful epidemic. Many of the state and national libraries today are only morgues in which

dead books are waiting for some one to come and recognize them. What if all the people that had been born were still alive? Would we have been elbowed by our ancestors of ten generations ago, and people who ought to have said their last word 3,000 years ago would snarl at us, saying, "What are you doing here?"

There would have been no room to turn around. Some of the past generations of mankind were not worth remembering. The first useful thing that many people did was to die--their cradle a misfortune and their grave a boon. This world was hardly a comfortable place to live in before the middle of the last century. So many things have come into the world that were not fit to stay in we ought to be glad they were put out. The waters of Lethe, the fountain of forgetfulness, are a healthful draft. The history we have of the world in ages past is always one sided and cannot be depended on. History is fiction illustrated by a few straggling facts. In all the Pantheon the weakest goddess is

Clio, the goddess of history, and instead of being represented by sculptors as holding a scroll might be better represented as limping on crutches.

Faithful history is the saving of a few things out of more things lost. The immortality that comes from pomp of obsequies or granite shaft of building named after its founder or page of recognition in some encyclopedia is an immortality unworthy of one's ambition, for it will all cease and is no immortality at all.

Oblivion! A hundred years. But while I recognize this universal submergence of things earthly, who wants to be for-

gotten? Not one of us. Absent for a few weeks or months from home, it cheers us to know that we are remembered there. It is a phrase we have all pronounced, "I hope you missed me." Meeting some friends from whom we have been parted many years, we in-

quire, "Did you ever see me before?" and they say "Yes," and call us by name, and we feel a delightful sensation thrilling

through their hand into our hand, and running up from elbow to shoulder, and then parting, the one current of delight ascending to the brow and the other descending to the foot, moving round and round in concentric circles until every nerve and muscle and capacity of body and mind and soul is permeated with delight.

A few days ago, visiting the place of my boyhood, I met one whom I had not seen since we played together at 10 years of age, and I had peculiar pleasure in puzzling him a little as to who I was, and I can hardly describe the sensation as after awhile he mumbled out: "Let me see. Yes, you are De Witt." We all like to be remembered.

Now, I have to tell you that this oblivion of which I have spoken has its defeats, and that there is no more reason why we should not be distinctly and vividly and gloriously remembered five hundred million billion trillion quadrillion quintillion years from now than that we should be remembered in six weeks. I am going to tell you how the thing can be done and will be done.

SOMETHING THAT CANNOT BE EFFACED.

We may build this "everlasting remembrance," as my text styles it, into the supernal existence of those to whom we do kindnesses in this world. You must remember that this infirm and treacherous faculty which we now call memory is in the future state to be complete and perfect. "Everlasting remembrance!" Nothing will slip the stout grip of that celestial faculty. Did you help a widow pay her rent? Did you find for that man released from prison a place to get honest work? Did you pick up a child fallen on the curbstone, and by a

stick of candy put in his hand stop the hurt on his scratched knee? Did you as-

sure a business man, swamped by the stringency of the money market, that times after awhile would be better?

Did you lead a Magdalen of the street into a midnight mission, where the Lord said to her, "Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more?" Did you tell a man, clear discouraged in his wayward-

ness and hopeless and plotting suicide, that for him was near by a laver in which he might wash and a coronet of

eternal blessedness he might wear? What are epitaphs in graveyards, what are eulogiums in presence of those whose breath is in their nostrils, what are unread biographies in the alcoves of a city library, compared with the imperishable records you have made in the illumined memories of those to whom you did such kindnesses? Forget them? They cannot forget them. Notwithstanding all their might and splendor, there are some things the glorified of heaven cannot do, and this is one of them. They cannot forget an earthly kindness done. They have no cutlass to part that cable. They have no strength to hurl into oblivion that benefaction. Has Paul forgotten the inhabitants of Malta, who extended the island hospitality when he and others with him had felt, added to a shipwreck, the drenching rain and the sharp cold? Has the victim of the highwayman on the road to Jericho forgotten the Good Samaritan with a medicament of oil and wine and a free ride to the hostelry? Have the English soldiers who went up to God from the Crimean battlefields forgotten Florence Nightingale? Through all eternity will the northern and southern soldiers forget the northern and southern women who administered to the dying boys in blue and gray after the awful fights in Tennessee and Pennsylvania and Virginia and George, which turned every house and barn and shed into a hospital and incarnadined the Susquehanna, and the James, and the Chattaboochee, and the Savannah with brave blood? The kindnesses you do to others will stand as long in the appreciation of others as the gates of heaven will stand, as the "House of Many Mansions" will stand, as long as the throne of God will stand.

CHARACTER IS ETERNAL.

Another defeat of oblivion will be found in the character of those whom we rescue, uplift or save. Character is eter-

nal. Suppose by a right of influence we aid in transforming a bad man into a good man, and a dolorous man into a happy

man, a disheartened man into a cour-

ageous man--every stroke of that work done will be immortalized. There may never be so much as one line in a news-

paper regarding it, or no mortal tongue may ever whisper it into human ear, but wherever that soul shall go your work upon it shall go, wherever that soul rises your work on it will rise, and so long as that soul will last your work on it will last.

Do you suppose there will ever come such an idiotic lapse in the history of the soul in heaven that it shall forget

that you invited him to Christ; that you by prayer or gospel word turned him round from the wrong way to the right

way? No such insanity will ever smite a heavenly citizen. It is not half as well known on earth that Christopher Wren planned and built St. Paul's as it will be

known in all heaven that you were the instrumentality of building a temple for the sky.

We teach a Sabbath class, or put a Christian tract in the hand of a passerby, or testify for Christ in a prayer meeting, or preach a sermon and go home discouraged, as though nothing had been accomplished, when we had been character

building with a material that no frost or earthquake or rolling of the centuries can damage or bring down.

There is no sublimer art on earth than architecture. With pencil and rule and compass, the architect sits down alone

and in silence, and evolves from his own brain a cathedral, or a national capitol, or a massive home before he leaves that ta-

ble, and then he goes out and unrolls his plans, and calls carpenters and masons and artisans of all sorts to execute his

design, and when it is finished he walks around the vast structure, and sees the completion of the work with high satis-

faction, and one a stone at some corner of the building the architect's name may be chiseled. But the storms do their work, and time, that takes down everything, will yet take down that structure, until there shall not be one stone left upon another.

But there is a soul in heaven. Through your instrumentality it was put there.

Under God's grace you are the architect of its eternal happiness. Your name is written, not on one corner of its nature,

but inwrought into its every fiber and energy. Will the storms of winter wash out the story of what you have wrought

upon that spiritual structure? No. There are no storms in that land, and there is no winter. Will time wear out the inscrip-

tion which shows your fidelity? No. Time

is past, and it is an everlasting now. Built into the foundation of that imperishable structure, built into its pillars, built into its capstone, is your name--either the name you have on earth or the name by which celestials shall call you.

I know the Bible says in one place that God is a jealous God, but that refers to the work of those who worship some oth-

er god. A true father is not jealous of his child. With what glee you show the picture your child penciled, or a toy ship your child hewed out, or recite the noble deed your child accomplished. And God never was jealous of a Joshua, never was jealous of a Paul, never was jealous of a Frances Havergal, never was jealous of a man or woman who tried to heal wounds and wipe away tears and lift burdens and save souls; and while all is of grace, and your self abnegating utterance will be, "Not unto us, not unto us, but unto thy name, O Lord, give glory!" you shall always feel a heavenly satisfaction in every good thing you did on earth, and if iconoclasm, borne from beneath, should break through the gate of heaven and efface one record of your earthly fidelity, methinks Christ would take one of the nails of his own cross and write somewhere on the crystal, or the amethyst, or the jacinth, or the chrysoprasus, your name and just under it the inscription of my text, "The righteous shall be held in everlasting remembrance."

Oh, this character building! You and I are every moment busy in that tre-

mendous occupation. You are making me better or worse, and we shall through all eternity bear the mark of

this benediction or blasting. Let others have the throne of heaven--those who

have more mightily wrought for God and the truth--but it will be heaven enough for you and me if ever and anon we meet some radiant soul on the boulevards of the great city who shall say:

"You helped me once. You encouraged me when I was in earthly struggle. I do not know that I would have reached

this shining place had it not been for you." And we will laugh with heavenly glee and say: "Ha! ha! Do you really

remember that talk? Do you remember that warning? Do you remember that Christian invitation? What a memory

you have! Why, that must have been down thee in Brooklyn and New Or-

leans at least ten thousand million years ago." And the answer will be, "Yes, it

was as long as that, but I remember it as well as though it were yesterday."

Oh, this character building! The structure lasting independent of passing cen-

turies, independent of the crumbling mausoleums, independent of the whole planetary system. Aye, if the material universe, which seems all bound together like one piece of machinery, should some day meet with an accident that should send worlds crashing into each other like telescoped railway trains, and all the wheels of constellations and galaxies should stop, and down into the chasm of immensity all the suns and moons and stars should tumble like the midnight express at Ashtabula, that would not touch us and would not hurt God, for God is a spirit, and character and memory are immortal, and over that grave of a wrecked material universe might truthfully be written, "The righteous shall be held in

everlasting remembrance."

O Time, we defy thee! O Death, we stamp thee in the dust of thine own sepulchers! O Eternity, roll on till the last star has stopped rotating, and the

last sun is extinguished on the sapphire pathway, and the last moon has il-

lumined the last night, and as many years have passed as all the scribes that

ever took pen could describe by as many figures as they could write in all the cen-

turies of all time, but thou shalt have no power to efface from any soul in glory the memory of anything we have done to bring it to God and heaven!

A FROWN FOLLOWED BY A KISS.

There is another and a more complete defeat for oblivion, and that is in the

heart of God himself. You have seen a sailor roll up his sleeve and show you his arm tattooed with the figure of a favor-

ite ship--perhaps the first one in which he ever sailed. You have seen a soldier roll up his sleeve and show you his arm tattooed with the picture of a fortress where he was garrisoned, or the face of a great general under whom he fought. You have seen many a hand tattooed with the face of a loved one before or after marriage. This tattooing is almost as old as the world. It is some colored liquid punc-

tured into the flesh so indelibly that nothing can wash it out. It may have

been there 50 years, but when the man goes into his coffin that puncture will go with him on hand or arm. Now, God

says that he has tattooed us upon his hands. There can be no other meaning in the forty-ninth chapter of Isaiah, where God says, "Behold, I have graven thee on the palms of my hands!"

It was as much as to say: "I cannot open my hand to help, but I think of you. I cannot spread abroad my hands

to bless, but I think of you. Wherever I go up and down the heavens I take these two pictures of you with me. They

are so inwrought into my being that I cannot lose them. As long as my hands last the memory of you will last. Not on the backs of my hands, as though to announce you to others, but on the palms of my hands for myself to look

at and study and love. Not on the palm of one hand alone, but on the palms of both hands, for while I am looking upon one hand and thinking of you, I must have the other free to pro-

tect you, free to strike back your enemy, free to lift if you fall. Palms of my hands indelibly tattooed. And though I hold the winds in my fist no cyclone shall up-

root the inscription of your name and your face, and though I hold the ocean in the hollow of my hand its billowing shall not wash out the record of my re-

membrance. 'Behold, I have graven thee on the palms of my hands.'"

What joy, what honor can there be comparable to that of being remembered by the mightiest and kindest and love-

liest and tenderest and most affectionate being in the universe. Think of it--to hold an everlasting place in the heart of God. The heart of God! The most beau-

tiful palace in the universe. Let the archangel build some palace as grand as he can. Let him crumble up all the stars of yesternight and tomorrow night and put them together as mosaics

for such a palace floor. Let him take all the sunrises and sunsets of all the days and the auroras of all the nights and hang them as upholstery at its windows.

Let him take all the rivers, and all the lakes, and all the oceans, and toss them into the fountains of this palace court.

Let him take all the gold of all the hills and hang it in its chandeliers, and all the pearls of all the seas and all the diamonds of all the fields, and with them arch the doorways of that palace, and then invite into it all the glories that Esther ever saw at a Persian banquet, or Daniel ever walked among in Baby-

onian castles, or Joseph witnessed in Pharaoh's throneroom, and then your-

self enter this castle of archangelic construction and see how poor a palace it is compared with the greater palace that

some of you have already found in the heart of a loving and pardoning God, and into which all the music and all the prayers, and all the sermonic considerations of this day are trying to introduce you through the blood of the slain Lamb.

Oh, where is oblivion now? From the dark and overshadowing word that it seemed when I began, it has become something which no man or woman or child who loves the Lord need ever fear.

Oblivion defeated. Oblivion dead. Ob-

livion sepulchered. But I must not be so hard on that devouring monster, for into its grave go all our sins when the Lord

for Christ's sake has forgiven them. Just blow a resurrection trumpet over them when once oblivion has snapped them

down. Not one of them rises. Blow again. Not a stir amid all the pardoned iniquities of a lifetime. Blow again! Not

one of them moves in the deep grave trenches. But to this power does resur-

rection trumpet a voice responds, half human, half divine, and it must be part man and part God, saying, "Their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more."

Thank God for this blessed oblivion!

So you see I did not invite you down in-

to a cellar, but up on a throne--not into the graveyard to which all materialism is distined, but into a garden all abloom

with everlasting remembrance. The frown of my first text has become the

kiss of the second text. Annihilation has become coronation. The wringing hands of a great many have become the clapping hands of a great joy. The requiem with which we began has become the grand march with which we close. The tear of sadness that rolled down our cheek has struck the lip on which sits the laughter of eternal triumph.

The Work of a Higher Being. He (after the proposal)--I hope you don't think I've made a fool of myself, Miss Penelope?

She--Oh, no. (A pause.) You know I am not an atheist.--Truth.

JOHN BROWER, Painter and Glazier. DEALER IN Lewis Bros. Pure White Lead, Linseed Oil and Colors.

First Quality Hard Oil and Varnishes. Roberts' Fire and Water Proof Paints.

Pure Metallic Paints for Tin and Shingle Roofs (and no other should be used where rain water is caught for family use).

All brands of Ready Mixed Paints. Window Glass of all kinds and patterns. Reference given. STORE ON ASBURY AVE. OCEAN CITY, N. J.

OCEAN CITY A Moral Seaside Resort. Not Excelled as a Health Restorer.

Finest facilities for FISHING, Sailing, gunning, etc. The Liquor Traffic and its kindred evils are forever prohibited by deed. Every lover of Temperance and Morals should combine to help us. Water Supply, Railroad, Steamboats And all other Modern Conveniences.

Thousands of lots for sale at various prices, located in all parts of the city. For information apply to E. B. LAKE, Secretary, Ocean City Asso'n, SIXTH ST. & ASBURY AVE.

ISRAEL G. ADAMS & CO., Real Estate and Insurance AGENTS, 2031 ATLANTIC AVE. Atlantic City, N. J. Commissioner of Deeds for Pennsylvania. Money to loan on first mortgage. Lots for sale at South Atlantic City.

Flagging & Curbing. GET THE BEST STONE FLAGGING and CURBING Never wears out. No second expense. For terms and contracts consult Robert Fisher, my agent for Ocean City. DENNIS MAHONEY.

Railroad Time-Tables. WEST JERSEY RAILROAD, On and after September 27, 1893. Leave Ocean City--7.40 a. m., 3.10 p. m. Sunday, 9 a. m., 4.40 p. m. Arrive Ocean City--11.40 a. m., 6.26 p. m. Sunday, 11.28 a. m., 6.15 p. m. PHILADELPHIA & READING R. R. ATLANTIC CITY DIVISION. TO AND FROM PHILADELPHIA. Two Ferries--Chestnut Street and South Street. SHORTEST ROUTE TO NEW YORK. In effect September 26, 1893. LEAVE ATLANTIC CITY. DEPOT--Atlantic and Arkansas avenues. FOR PHILADELPHIA. WEEK DAYS. 8.10 a m accom. arrive Phila. 10.20 a m 7.30 a m express " " 8.55 a m 8.50 a m express " " 10.20 a m 4.00 p m express " " 5.35 p m 4.30 p m express " " 6.40 p m SUNDAY. 7.15 a m accom. arrive Phila. 9.25 a m 4.00 p m express " " 5.55 p m 4.35 p m accom. " " 6.30 p m 5.15 p m express " " 6.40 p m LEAVE PHILADELPHIA. Chestnut Street and South Street Ferries. FOR ATLANTIC CITY. WEEK DAYS. 8.00 a m accom. arrive Atlantic City 10.10 a m 9.00 a m express " " " 10.20 a m 4.00 p m express " " " 5.27 p m 5.00 p m express " " " 6.35 p m 5.45 p m accom. " " " 7.45 p m

SUNDAYS.

8.00 a m accom. " " " 10.20 a m 9.00 a m express " " " 10.30 a m 10.00 a m express " " " 11.25 a m

4.30 p m express " " " 6.45 p m

FOR BALTIMORE AND WASHINGTON. Trains leaving Atlantic City week-days 8.50 a. m. and 4.00 p. m. Sunday 7.15 a. m., and 4.00 and 5.15 p. m. connect with express trains for Baltimore and Washington, via B & O R R from Twenty-fourth and Chestnut streets, Philadelphia. Street cars direct from Chestnut street Ferry to B & O depot. FOR NEW YORK. 8.10 a m express arrive Atlantic City 10.10 a m 4.30 p m express " " " 9.02 p m

LEAVE NEW YORK. WEEK DAYS.

4.30 a m express arrive Atlantic City 10.10 a m 1.30 p m " " " " 6.35 p m

Pullman parlor cars attached to all express trains.

All express trains run over Baltic avenue extension.

Time at Philadelphia is for both Chestnut street and South street wharves.

Time at Atlantic City is at depot. For time at avenues, see detailed tables.

Reading R. R. Transfer Co. and Cab Service Passengers and baggage promptly conveyed.

Union Transfer Company will call for and check baggage from hotels and cottages to destination. I. A. SWEIGARD, Gen. Man. C. G. HANCOCK, Gen'l. Pass. Agent.

GREAT BARGAINS IN FALL AND WINTER CLOTHING, Hats, Caps and Gents Furnishing Goods, AT M. MENDEL'S RELIABLE ONE PRICE STORE. 1625 ATLANTIC AVENUE, ATLANTIC CITY, N. J. Children's Nobby Clothing a Specialty. A Banjo Souvenier Given Away with every Child's Suit.

Tell your neighbors and friends of the opportunity to visit the City FREE OF RAILROAD EXPENSE.

We have an enormous stock of Clothing. We shall sell it. The prices will be the lowest ever known.

To make it an object to you we will, in addition to the low prices, pay your Railroad Fare on the purchase of an ordinary amount. Best Suits and Overcoats ever sold for $10 AND $15

IMPORTANT! IMPORTANT! A Trip to the City free of Cost!

Wanamaker and Brown

Philadelphia, Sixth and Market

Y. CORSON, REAL ESTATE AGENT, AND LICENSED AUCTIONEER, No. 721 Asbury Avenue, OCEAN CITY, N. J.

Properties for sale. Boarding Houses and Cottages for Rent in all parts of the city. Correspondence solicited.

WM. LAKE, C. E., REAL ESTATE AGENT, Surveying, Conveyancing, Commissioner of Deeds, Notary Public, Master in Chancery. Sec'y Ocean City Building and Loan Association. Lots for Sale or Exchange. Houses to rent, furnished or unfurnished. Deeds, Bonds, Mortgages, Wills and Contracts carefully drawn. Abstracts of titles carefully prepared. Experience of more than twenty-five years. Office--Sixth Street and Asbury Avenue. P. O. Box 825. WM. LAKE.

Honesty is the best policy.--B. Franklin. Therefore get the policies issued at the office of H. B. Adams & Co., by HONEST, Sound, Liberal, Solid and Successful Fire Insurance Companies. Your choice of 18 of the best American and English Companies. LOTS FOR SALE

in all parts of the city. Hotels and Cottages for Sale or Rent. Money to loan on mortgages.

H. B. ADAMS & CO.,

Eighth Street, opposite W. J. R. R. Station,

OCEAN CITY, N. J.

E. B. LAKE,

SUPERINTENDENT OF

OCEAN CITY ASSOCIATION

From its Organization, and also

REAL ESTATE AGENT

Having thousands of Building Lots for sale at various prices, Some very Cheap and located in all parts of Ocean City. Now is the time to purchase property before the second railroad comes, as then property will greatly advance.

I have a good many Inquiries for Property between 6th and 12th streets. Any one having property for sale might do well to give me their prices.

All persons desiring to Buy, or Sell, or Exchange property, would do well before closing any transaction to call on or address

E. B. LAKE, Association Office, No. 601 Asbury Ave., Ocean City, N. J.