M>PrfHARLESHALE
LWtv .It .
There was a slight touch upon my
arm, my wounded arm, as It chanced,
that lay beneath the blanket, a touch
that sent a pang like the piercing of
a hot Iron through It, and a sweet
voice said:
"Can I do anything for you, my poor
man? The surgeon will be here Im
mediately, and I thought It best to
waken you.” It added. aB I opened my
eyes upon that neat, quiet little figure
which I had long before seen.
The recognition was mutual.
■"Captain Hale!”
"Mrs. Dnmarcle!"
"I did not expect to see you here!”
a mutual exclamation, and there was
time for no more, for the surgeon, fol
lowed by his assistant with a hideous
paraphernalia, had come.
Then followed an awful hour. I think
I received a full Idea of the mean
ing of the word torture during its
passage. At last they left me, the ball
extracted and the arm bandaged, but
utterly exhausted by pain, long fasting
and want of sleep.
I did not wake until the following
morning and then to an Intolerable
pain and smarting In my arm. The
bandage seemed like a ligature, and
there was a burning, aB of hot Iron,
from finger ends to shoulder. I was
writhing with the torture, and feeling
strangely weak and powerless when
'*he came to me. Her voice roused me
from my trance of agony.
"Can I do anything for you. Captain
Hale?" she said, in those quiet, even
tones that were a sedative In them
selves.
•'Yes, thank you. Send some one to
loose my bandage—my arm Is Intoler
able."
"I will do It myself. I know how
perfectly;” and before I could utter an
expostulation she had my arm tenderly
In her little hands, and was deftly re
moving the bandage and loosing the
folds. She hurt me very badly, but
there was something soothing In her
touch that made me bear it without
much shrinking.
“Your arm is badly swollen, but I
think that will be better," she said, at
length, as she gently disposed the
wounded limb above the blanket. “I
will go to the office and procure a lo
tion for you.”
And with the word she was gone. I
had been greatly relieved, and could
think of something besides my suffer
ings. And my thoughts went back as
I followed the quaint little figure with
my eyes to the time I had seen It last,
and In such different surroundings.
It was five years before at a grand
ball, at the house of one of the diplo
matic corps, In Washington, that I saw
Helen Dumarele, a bride. As a child
I had known her well, and had met her
once or twice as she grew to woman
hood, when she paid rare but welcome
visits to my sisters. We renewed our
acquaintance then, and she Introduced
me to her husband, a splendid-looking
young officer—a South Carolinian of
French-Huguenot descent. I was
pleased with his grand, courtly man
ner, and Helen seemed equally proud
of him. Her father’s reverses had made
her a governess in the South, and there
she met Paul Dumarele. I heard that
the Dumarcles felt the marriage a mis
alliance, but I think Paul Dumarele
did not feel that he had condescended
in marrying the pretty little creature
who hung upon his arm.
She was splendid that night—In
some rich dress from her trousseau—
I am not a man milliner to describe it
—with the soft gleam of pearls In her
golden hair and a necklace, with a
great emerald blazing amid the lucent
pearls that surrounded it, upon her
bosom. She was too little to bear
much bravery of dress, and with all
her splendor I thought 1 bad seen her
look better in the pretty muslins that
suited opr village gatherings afar in
the old New England home.
1 bad scarcely heard from her since,
MKI.EN WOIXD OFTEN TAKE MV
THROHHINH IIAM> IN HERN
fur my Ufa bad bran oa» of roaming
and a»tli*m«*ul. afar from old *mo> i
ailoaa. Hut wbai a cbaag*' | «<>uld
atva aow atarvaly raalu* II. Wbrra
ati |)utuar>la? Muraly ba bad gt*a«
»na iba Noaib la tbta war' Aad y«l
boar »aa»a »h# bara. a bur** la lb.*
I aiou buapllal?
Hill la Iba a«i< uf thought. | *aw
bar owing batb with Iba amgaoa by
bar aida. Tba p«*»r fallow* ou ibr.r
(Oil rai*ad tbamaaltaa to look al h,*r
(Ml aba paaaad bat h, and fall ba. h *mll
lag If aba bat gtanead al lb*m kindly,
ur apuba a f*» word* ta ibat wuadar
fully aaimlag v«*a
Tba aurgatoi luoktd grata a* ha aaw
mr arm. Ma ga»a bu urJar* rapidly. I
and I could see a shade pass over Mrs.
Dumarcle's face as she listened. She
followed him Ju3t out of earshot, as
be moved away, and spoke to him
earnestly. His parting words only
reached my ear.
"As he lg a friend of yours, certain
ly. The room Is empty, and, as the
fever Is coming on, he will, of course,
be more comfortable where pure air
can be obtained. Give your own or
ders, If you please, for I am too busy
Just now to attend to It."
"Do you think you could bear being
moved upstairs?" Helen Dumarcle
said, coming back to me. "There Is
an empty room I shall have prepared
for you; but first you must have your
breakfast. Do you feel hungry?"
She spoke In a quiet, matter-of-fact
way, as If she had been all her life a
nurse in a hospital, and then sho went
away and presently brought me a
dainty mess of something that she said
I must eat, because she bad cooked It
with her own hands. I had no appe
tite, but I tried to eat, because ahe bade
me, and something of the weary sense
of exhaustion left me when I had fin
ished. About noon men came, and
with Helen to superintend, lifted my
cot and carried me away to the quiet,
lone upper room that ht,J been pre
pared for me.
When they had gone Helen bustled
In, smilingly, and Introduced to my no
tice a big, shlny-looklng contraband,
who gave my tired senses a first Im
pression of mingled patent-leather
boots and piano keys, who, she said,
would stay with me all the time, and
take care of me when she was obliged
to be absent. Then she said some
thing to him apart about "erysipelas"
and "giving the medicine regularly."
I remember feeling an air of comfort
I WAS PLACED ON THE FATAL
TABLE.
In the clean, bare room and a delicious
sense of quiet, after the roar of battle
and the sounds of pain and anguish
that had been ringing in my ears ever
since 1 was wounded. Then followed
a blank, whether of sleep or delirium 1
know not, with occasional Intervals of
waking, always to Intolerable pain and
burning in my arm, In my whole side,
with a ringing In my ears and a
fevered restlessness entirely beyond
my control. Through my dreams flit
ted Helen, now in the sheen of pearls
and satin, now In plain hospital garb.
Time passed in this strange, dream
like existence, that was peopled by
many another sight, scenes borrowed
from the fury of battle, the sudden ter
ror of attack, quiet mountain bivouacs
and picket stations under the stars, on
drear plains that seemed stretched to
mysterious, unending distances, in the
shadowy light.
Helen would often come In. sit be
side my cot and take my throbbing
hand in hers. Sometimes she was ac
companied by a sweet-faced Sister of
Charity—one of thoee angels of mercy,
whose presence in army hospitals Is
familiar to all wounded soldiers, and
whose gentle ministrations have
soothed the agony of many a dying
hero.
I know that I was carefully tended,
but all care could not prevent what fol
lowed. One morning I was lifted from
my cot and placed upon the fatal table.
When they placed me In my bed again
the arm was gone, and with It the
awful burning pain, and much of the
danger that had threatened mv life.
It was not long, then, before 1
emerged from the shadowy seml-de
Ilrlurn In which my days and nights In
that quiet chamber had been passed.
1 began to recognise and Identify Jem.
the shiny contraband, as something
tangible, to feel amused at his quaint
ways, uud odd. Indistinct mode of
speech; and to feel pleased when he
answered my dim smite by a hearty
guffaw and a fearful display of the
piano keys And l began to mak>
Helen'e visits the events of my monot
onous life; to watch for her at her ac
customed hours, and to sink back,
every nerve soothed and muscle re
laved, In the deeps of a measureless
content whin she came | had lost my
arm my good right arm. :t poor man «
emblem of power to do and date, and
which was alt that stood between me
snd the •mid world's 'harttle*. An 1
j yet I was strung*ly happy
Gradually, with strength, my
though'- came ha ’« to th< inter.-t* <
life. ! bad many brief talks with
! Helen, but they hoi Imvq chiefly uf -*ur
; old home, she had tuner a11 tided | j
; Herwelf, nor told tee why she wav there
' It had been enough. In my lltnev*. to
1 know that however she • ante «h.. a
t there, and I getting well in her «»•
• nd Jem a; for I will lot Is viiisiviit1
whatever else I am
Hut at last I - an v |« w> r»t*»r at this
f though I dared a*k no question
thinking thus 1 spoke aloud *« on
i « >u»eiitue* it ■* i In moving quite <ta
awwte that I had line *11 till J» II
crawrhtng by the wind*** In the full
rays of the *un answered a«
What tu have teniaw of Captain
Ihtmatele’
" Master Haul * dead.'" wa* Jew * an
swer; "killed down to Newbern last
year."
"You knew him. then?” I cried,
startled, being unaware, you Bee, till he
spoke that I had uttered my thought
aloud.
"Yah! yah!" burst out Jem, "reckon
I did, marster; used to ’long to him,
me an’ all my folks.”
"You! Paul Dumarcle's slave* And
Helen’s now?”
"No, air. Miss Helen never would
own wedem. Tell us to go North, and
when she cum I stick to her close, you
bet. But I 'spect I own myself, now,"
replied Jem with another laugh and a
mixture of negro patois and Yankee
slang in his speech.
"You do, of course, Jem,” for his last
remark was half question; “there are
no slaves here. But was Captain Du
marcle In the army?”
“Yes, sir 'Long of the Confeder
ates. When he killed. Miss Helen
come North to get his body, and, oh,
how she weep when she llnd he been
buried many days! She nebber go
back any more. She been herq ebber
since, and Jem with her,”
“Ah!” I said. "But I am very
thirsty. Will you bring me a drink,
Jem?” I would not question a servant,
but I had received Information enough
to think about for one day.
Helen was a widow, then! How !
lonely she was, and what a hard, hard !
life after the years of luxury she had
enjoyed in her southern home!
A few days afterward, when I was
nearly well enough to be discharged,
Helen spoke to me of herself. She told |
me of the dreadful parting that was
final. Of her Journey northward when
tidings of ber husband’s death came, I
and finding only the grave where his
mutilated remains were laid days be- ;
fore.
"My little Phillip died but a month ,
before,” she said, “and I bad no longer
any tie to bind me. My dream of love
and home was past. Stern, sorrowful !
realities presented themselves. Intel- I
llgent nurses were wanted, and I re
solved to take my place among them
My life Is dedicated to the work.”
"But, Helen, you need not sacrifice i
your life. You are looking pale and |
worn. When my mother comes to take
me home, go with us. You know how
welcome you will be.”
"I thank you, Charley," she an- !
ewered. as If something In my words 1
had recalled our youth, calling me by '
the old, familiar name, "but my work
Is here; I cannot leave it. After the
war is over, perhaps, If I live till !
then—”
Her tone was very gad, but she ,
looked up as she paused, and a touch
ing smile, full of resignation and hope,
dawned ove1- the marble pallor of her
face. She rose up and went away.
When my mother came she added
her entreaties to mine, and even some- ;
thing of the authority which her age
and long friendship Justified. But
Helen, with warm thanks, put her j
aside, as she bad done me. Her work
was there, ehe said; she could not 1
leave It. And so we left her to her
patient rounds and mournful duties.
I went home a crippled man. No
more of outward striving life for me,
no dreams and successes, no ambitions
to be realized. The future seemed a
drear blank. I fell Into a morbid state
—thoughts Introverted sell prominent,
bitter, uncharitable, unreasoning, I
supposed I was grateful to Helen, but
I often found myself wishing she had
let me die. And, as I could not yet
hold a pen In my left hand, I made
that an excuse for not writing to her,
when either of my sisters would gladly
have written for me, and often did
write on their own account, and
thanked hei over and over again for
preserving to them the brother, who
had been too sullen and bearish to
deserve such kindness ever since his
return. Helen answered briefly—her
time was so occupied—but she said
little about herself.
It came upon us all with a great
shock, then, when, about two months
after my return home, the papers
brought us tidings of her death.
Faithful to the end, she had never
left her post, even to die. When she
could no longer resist her weakness
and disease she lay down In the great,
bare room, and upon the very cot I
had laid on to die. Thera poor, faith
ful Jem watched her, with all a worn- I
an a tenderness, to the last, and kind, |
• M Ml K It I* ML'S DR AD,** WAS
JEM « ANXWEH
; 'h*>urh atr.rger friend* of her own
***» K*tl r«d round her ll*r burden
i bad teen too heavy for her, but *h«
had t» in* I* * el!, and her monument in
in « hundred n ;« hearts that wtil
• tun)* b ♦ <tut*her with loan and
tratlt'oi" whebvati her name n ui> n
llwcil or Ihnlf thought! t*<*r( to her
ream ami*
I ha i.u<*l *> 41) he* In th« Itoyal
t library at Mtm fcbtdm |« a II hie ||
* 1 ’ • ! ■ • r* t|, 4
' f»r tta |Mii-hiu«nt tea tea Th »ra tra
;t« ;■«"f anting and aaeh |m««
fall* but one imb *Uort of being a yar|
j " letir'h * be » i*»i* *ra ea <4 ylan**
, Iww lavhe* thi«h
; TALMAGE8 SERMON.
"THE BALANCES." the subject
ON SUNDAY.
—
I I'rnm Daniel 6: 27 a* Fnllairgi—BIrno,
M»n« Trkxl Ipharluon — Thou Art
Weighed In the UiUancm and Art
Found Wantin';.
Babylon was the paradise of archi
tecture, and driven out from thence
the grandest buildings of modern times
are only the evidence of her fall. The
site having been selected for the city,
two million men were employed in the
rearing of her walls and the building
of her works. It was a city sixty miles
In circumference. There was a trench
all around the city, from which the ma
terial for the building of the city had
been digged. There were twenty-five
gates on each side of the city; between
every two gates a tower of defense
springing into the skies; from each
gate on the one side a street running
straight tlyough to the corresponding
gate on the other side, so that there
were fifty streets fifteen miles long.
Through the city ran a branch of the
river Euphrates. This river some
times overflowed Its banks, and to keep
It from ruining the city, a lake was
constructed into which the surplus
water of the river would run during
the time of freshets, and the water
was kept in this artificial lake until
time of drought, and then this water
would stream down over the city. At
either end of the bridge spanning this
Euphrates there was a palace—the one
palace a mile and a half around, the
other palace seven and a half miles
around.
The wife of Nebuchadnezzar had
been born and brought up in the coun
try, and In a mountainous region, and
she could not bear this flat district of
Babylon; and so, to please his wife,
Nebuchadnezzar built In the midst of
the city a mountain four hundred feet
high. This mountain was built out
into terraces, supported on arches. On
the top of these arches a layer of flat
stones, on the top of that a layer of
reeds and bitumen, on the top of that
two layers of bricks closely cemented,
on the top of that a heavy sheet of
lead, and on the top of that the soil
placed—the soil so deep that a Lebanon
cedar had room to anchor Its roots.
There were pumps worked by mighty
machinery fetching up the water from
the Euphrates to this Panging garden,
as It was called, so that there were
fountains spouting Into the sky. Stand
ing below and looking up it must have
seemed as If the clouds were in blos
som, or as though the sky leaned on
the shoulder of a cedar. All this
Nebuchadnezzar did to please his wife.
Well, she ought to have been pleased.
I suppose she was pleased. If that
would not please her, nothing would.
There was In that city also the temple
of Belus, with towers—one tower the
eighth of a mile high. In which there
was an observatory where astrono
mers talked to the stars. There was
In that temple an image. Just one Im
age. which would cost what would be
our fifty-two million dollurs.
Oh, what a city! The earth never
saw anything like it, never will see
anything like it. And yet I have to
tell you that it is going to be destroyed.
The king and bis princes are at a
feast. They are all intoxicated. Pour
out the rich wine into the chalices!
Drink to the health of the king! Drink
to the glory of Babylon! Drink to a
great future! A thousand lords reel
intoxicated. The king seated upon a
chair, with vacant look, as Intoxicated
men will—with vacant look stared at
the wall. But soon that vacant look
takes on intensity, and it is an af
frighted look; and all the princes be
gin to look and wonder what is the
matter.and they look at the same point
on the wall. And then there drops
a darkness into the room, that puts
out the blaze of the golden plate, and
out of the sleeve of the darkness there
comes a linger—a finger of fiery ter
ror circling around and circling around
as though it would write; and then It
comes up and with sharp tip of flame
It inscribes on the plastering of the
wall the doom of the king: Weighed
In the balances, and found wanting.”
The bang of heavy fists against the
gates of the palace is followed by the
breaking in of the doors. A thousand
gleaming knives strike Into a thou
sand quivering hearts. Now Death is
king, and he is seated on a throne of
corpses. In that hall there la a bal
ance lifted Ood swung it. On one j
aide of the balance are put Uelahaz- j
zar'a opportunities, on the other side .
of the balance are put Belshazzar's
aina. The sins come down. Hla op
portunities go Up Weighed in the
balance* found wanting
There ha* been a great deal of
cheating In our country with falw
weight* and measure* an I balance*,
and the government, to change that
•tate of thing* appointed roamueton
er» wh we ha«lne*« it wag to *tamp
weight* and MMium and balance*,
and a great d«al of the wrong haa been
corrected Itut atilt, after all, there I*
no *uch thing a* a p*ifr<| ba'unc* un
«ar<b The chain may break, nr aom*
of the metal may l>« clipped, or in
(Mine way the e<|tiip»U* may he dte
tarred Van m not atway* d«*i»«r< I
upon earthly balance*. \ pound ta n u
alw ty* a pound »tt«l you may ,,a« |H
i»r.e thing and get a to'-hr*-, but In the
balance which ta •uepende t t» in#
throne of tM. a pound tt a p*ur
an t right ta right and an-ng ta wrong,
ami a * mi ta a » ml, and eternity u
eternity lo'.l ha* a p rf*> t both
ant • perfect (»• h and a perfet g.ii
Ion Ah a merchant* weigh Ihoir
• ..~n n »n« • o»g th n th» i. •.
weigh* the 1 ,1 aga:n If ft on* *h«
Imiwrfe*! it ea*uiv ih< rntr -gani ju-' ir*
not what p • > itU o > a m* ■» of •
and there t* U*• than a gall an. U i
knows it. and calls upon his recording
angel to mark it: "So much wanting in
that measure of oil.” The farmer
comes in from the country. He has
apples to sell. He has an imperfect
measure. He pours out the apples
from his imperfect measure. God reg
ognlzes it. He says to the recording
angel: "Mark down so many apples too
few—an Imperfect measure.” We may
cheat ourselves, and we may cheat the
world, but we cannot cheat God, and
In the great day of Judgment it will be
found out that what we learned in
boyhood at school is correct; that
twenty hundredweight makes a ton,
and one hundred and twenty solid feet
makes a cord of wood. No more, no
less, and a religion which does not
take hold of this life, a* well us the
life to come, is no religion at all.
But, my friends, that Is not the style
of balances I am to speak of today,
that Is not the kind of weights and
measures. I am to speak of that kind
of balances which weigh principles,
weigh churches, weigh men, weigh na
tions and weigh worlds. "What!” you
say; “is it possible that our world is to
be weighed?” Yes. Why, you would
think If God put on one side of the
balances suspended from the throne
the Alps and the Pyrenees and the
Himalayas and Mount Washington.and
all the cities of the earth, they would
crush It. No! No! The time will
I come when God will sit down on the
white throne to see the world weigh
ed, and on one side will be the world’s
opportunities, and on the other side
the world’s sins. Down will go the
sins, and away will go the oportuni
tles, and God will say to the messen
gers with the torch: "Burn that
world! weighed and found wanting!”
So God will weigh churches. He
takes a great church. That church,
great according to the worldly esti
mate, must be weighed. He puts it on
one side the balances, and the minister
and the choir, and the building that
cost Its hundreds of thousands of dol
lars. He puts them on one side the
balances. On the other side of the
scale he puts w’hat that church ought
to be, what its consecration ought to
be, what Its sympathy for the poor
ought to be, what It3 devotion to all
good ought to be. That is on one side.
That aide ccmcs down, and the church,
not being able to stand the test, rises
In the balances. It does not make any
difference about your magnificent, ma
chinery. A church Is built for one
thing—to save souls. If It saves a
few souls when It might save a multi
tude of souls, God will spew It out of
his mouth! Weighed and found want
ing!
So we perceive that God estimates
nations. How many times he has put
the Spanish monarchy into the scales,
and found It Insufficient, and condemn
ed It! The French empire was placed
on one side of the scales, and God
weighed the French empire and Na
peoleon said: “Have I not enlarged
the boulevards? Did I not kindle the
glories of the Champs Elysees? Have
I not adorned the Tulleries? Have I
not built the gilded opera house?”
Then God weighed the nation, and he
put on one side the scales the emperor
and the boulevards, and the Tulleries
and the Champs Elysees, and the gild
ed opera house, and on the other
side he puts that man's abominations,
that man's libertinism, that man's sel
fishness, that man's godless ambition.
This last came down, and all the bril
liancy of the scene vanished. What is
that voice coming up from Sedan?
Weighed and found wanting!
Still the balances are suspended.
Are there any others who would like
to be weighed, or who will be weighed?
Yes; here comes a worldling. He gets
into the scales. I can very easily see
what his whole life is made up of.
Stocks, dividends, percentages, "buyer
ten days," "buyer thirty days." "Oct
in, my friend, get into these balances
and be weighed—weighed for this life,
and weighed for the life to come." He
gets in. I find that the two great
questions in his life are: "How cheap
ly can 1 buy these goods?" and "How
dearly can I sell them?” I find he ad
mires heaven because it is a land of
gold, and money must be "easy." I
find from talking with him. that re
ligion and the Sabbath are an inter
ruption, a vulgar interruption, and he
hopes on the way to church to drum
up a new customer! All the week he
has been weighing fruits, weighing
meats, weighing Ice, weighing coals,
weighing confections, weighing world
ly and perishable commodities, nut
realising the fact that he himself has
been weighed. "On your side the bal
ances, O worldling! I will give you
full advantage I put on your side all
the banking-houses, alt the store
houses, all the cargoes, all the Insur
ance companies., all the factories, all
the Silver, all file gold, ail the tuouey
vaults, all the safe deposits ail on
your side. Hut It does uot add one
ounce, for at the very moment we are
congratulating you on your fine house
and upon yt ur princely income, Uod
and the angel* are writing In regard
«•» your soul Weigh'd and found
wanting!' “
Hut I mu»t go faster and speak of
the final scrutiny. The fact is. my
fri< nils, we are moving on antld as
founding reait'le* t hese pul,, s which
now are drumming the march of life
may, after a while, rill a halt W*
wath on a hair hung bridge over
• basins Alt ground u« are dangers
lurking, ready to spring ■<». u* from
ambush. We lie doan at night not
knowing whether we shall arise in tee
•Horning We *i irt out N a opal.on«
; not kmining wh«ih»r we shntl torn*
! k frowns being burnished lor thy
; itfow. or l-olu forged for ihy prison
kngets of light readt to »h» of at thy
deliverance, of Sends of d*?ku**»
I king out she!' t«n hue is to pull
i thee down Into ruin ruiisnnstr!
see
Hui snys the fhrte'dan km I to
i be allowed to get vfl so easily ’ ’ V• ■
If some one should come and put on
the other side the scales all your im
perfections, all your envies, all your
jealousies, all your inconsistencies of
life, they would not budge the scales
with Christ on your side the scales.
Go free! There Is no condemnation to
them that are in Christ Jesus. Chains
broken, prison houses opened, sins
pardoned. Go free! Weighed in the
balances, and nothing, nothing wanted.
Oh! what a glorious hope! Will you
accept It this day? Christ making up
for what you lack. Christ the atone
ment for all your sins. Who will ac
cept him? Will not this whole au
dience say, ‘‘I am Insufficient, I am a
sinner, I am lost by reason of trans
gressions, but Christ has paid it all.
My Ix>rd, and my God. my life, my par
don, my heaven. Lord Jesus, I hall
thee!" Oh, If you could only under
stand the worth of that sacrifice which
I have represented to you under a fig
ure if you could understand the worth
of that sacrifice, this whole audience
would this moment accept Christ and
be saved.
We go away off, or back into his
tory, to get some illustration by which
we may set forth what Christ has done
for us. We need not go so far. I saw
a vehicle behind a runaway horse
dashing through the street, a mother
and her two children in the carriage.
The horse dashed along as though to
hurl them to death, and a mounted po
liceman, with a shout clearing the way,
and the horse at full run, attempted
to seize those runaway horses to save
a calamity, when his own horse fell
and roiled over him. He was picked
up half dead. Why were our sympa
thies so stirred? Because he was bad
ly hurt, and hurt for others. But I tell
you today of how Christ, the Son of
God, on the blood-red horse of sacri
fice, came for our rescue, and rode
down the sky, and rode unto
death for our rescue. Are not your
hearts touched? That was a .sac
rifice for you and me. O thou who dld«t
ride on the red horse of sacrifice! come
and ride through this world on the
white horse of victory!
EATING TO MUSIC.
A Popular t'ru/.c In Metropolitan Hotel*
anil Kt'Stuuruutn.
Music at meals is now the thing in
the metropolis. The craze is still very
young, yet it hus spread all over the
town, and looks as if It had to stay.
Not long since a certain restaurant of
the Bohemian class not far from rcur
teenth street encouraged a couple of
itinerant performers on the guitar and
mandolin to come around two or three
evenings In the week and help enter
tain the guests. There were three
rooms in the restaurant, and the musi
cians wandered from one to the other,
alternating their instrumental selec
tions with really good vocal numbers.
When any of the latter happened to
be well-known airs, guests around the
tables were not slow to join in the re
frain, and as the evening progressed
one may well Imagine that the musi
cians, whose pay was mostly gathered
from their happy hearers, were not
slow to select such pieces as had a
singable chorus. There was frequently
a number of persons at the tables with
good voices, and the audible result by
no means to be despised. The large
hotels, almost without exception, em
ploy orchestras ranging in number
from four to ten men. One of the
mose prominent of these places estab
lished an afternoon tea service a year
or so ago, and the tea drinkers and
muffin eaters beguiled an hour listen
ing to the yodellng of a blue and white
clad Tyrolean quartet, or the guitars
and mandolins of a group of Neapolr
ltans attired in spotless white trous
ers, with gorgeous and voluminous
sashes. Another well-known hotel en
tertains its after-theater habitues in
a palm garden, with seductive music
by a hidden harpist. Another place
down on the East Side seats its dinner
guests at tables in a cellar, on one side
of which great casks of wine are
ranged, while at the further end of
the cob-webbed room a band of gyp
sies discourses the weird music of the
Hungarian composers.
BOOKS OF ADVENTURE,
Myatrry mul i rliut* tlie Fnvurlt« I.If tra
in r** of ConvIt U.
New York World: Criminals, like
the people of Htageland and of other
professions that exact high nervous
pressure, have their superstitions.
Nothing Is better proof of the fact than
the library list of tflng ding prison und
a computation of the favorite books of
men who have run the gamut of crime
from murder to felony. In a two-'
months' record out of the well-fur
nished library of upward of 4,000 vol
umes of science, travel, biography, re
ligion and Action, the Intok that head*
the list, with a circulation of 4H3, Is
Charles l'e»4*'g "It |« Never Too latte
To Mend." lever's "Charles O'Mal
ley" |e a close second and (.ytton'g
"l*anl Clifford" a* third show* th«
standing of the gcutlemen highway
man wlih the men of nl* calling A leg
Duma*' "('mint of Monte Crlsto" was
out UVO times lb those eight weeks, and
the lilt ken* tenths which Contested its
run mttel closely were 'Oliver Twist.**
with Us fantou* history of Ittll Myk»s,
and "A Tale of Two Cities," with Its
**dr»v ('ation wl i v..|4 v
an4 dte4 a hero The Mherlot k Hointea
•lories of Conan I*, tie ami With!# Cd
tins' Moonstone Woman In White"
ami the l*ea4 4»t rti are in run si ant
>1*matol (‘apt K eg and ('a|*( Marry*
alt both h-tVv a strong following mol
dtaaley Wsyntan't spirited romances,
*o replete with in td«n(, •land ,1 1* hy
side with Mark Twain* "Torn
yet In tin animal urn of the prison
reader*.
The prospermia man who ts i,Ml busy
to think <>f lied ts as ting 4ty #* ihu
criminal whu Is two yb tvo* t > lo su. -*
Ham’s I lor n.
