KESsassai iSS3S MtHWMVJHHM W rlg-sWSW5,3'W wjrvaj jgjrS'!n'-yi -JfP 'BSsKjST' vws? rr .f IS THE' PETTSBIIRG DISPATCH., SUNDAY; APRIL '5; -.1891 UMMBgROfiiSSBu t prayer each time, acainst temptation and the devil's worts." CHAPTER XIX. 'Let us talk of other things," said TJnorna at last. "Talk of the other lady who is here. "Who is she? "What brings her into retreat at this time of year?" "Poor thing yes, she is Tery unhappy," answered Sister Paul. "It is a sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her. and this morning she came. His Eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to take her home to her own country. Her lather was taken ill in a country place near the city, which he had hired for the shoot iug season, and the poor girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she iiould be safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting." "Of course," said TJnorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poor child?" "She is not a child she must be five aud twenty years old, thouch perhaps her sor row makes her look older than she is." "And what is her name?" "Beatrice I cinnot remember the name oi her familv." Uuorna started. "What is it?" asked the nun, noticing TJnorna's sudden movement. ".Nothing the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It suggested fcoinetbins." Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of cloistered liie can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which is learned as readily and exercised, perhaps, as constantly in the midst of a small com munity, where each member is in some measure dependent upon all tbe rest for the dailv pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres of life. "You may have seen this lady, or you suv have heard of her," she said. "I would like to see her," Uuorna an swered, thoughtfully. one was thinking ot all tbe possibilities in the case. She remembered the clearness and precision cf the Wanderer's first im pression, when he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Church, and she reflected that the name was a very uncom mon one. The Beatrice ot this story, too, had a father and no other relation, aud was supposed to be traveling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor TJnorna had not been able to distinguish the lady's feat ures, but the impression she had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice ws. There was no reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being lelt alone in a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought reluge in a convent, and, this being admitted, it followed that she would naturally have been advised to retire to the one in w inch TJnorna found herself, it being tbe one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests. TJnorna could hardly trust herselt to speak. She was conscious that Si ter Paul was watching her, aud she turned her face from the lamp. "There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with her, it you wish it," said the nun. "She told me "that she would be at Compline at 9 o'clock. If you will be there jcurself, you can see her come in, ana watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever seen her?" "Xo," answered TJnorna, lu an odd tone, "I am sure that I have not." Sister Paul concluded from TJnorna's manner that the must have reason to believe that the guct was identical with soms one of whom she had heard very often. Her manner w. is abstracted, and the seemed ill at ease. But that might be the result of falirue. "Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "anu hate had nothing since you came, I am ture." ""o ves it is true," answered TJnorna. 'I had lorgotten. It would be very kind of you to send me something." Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to TJnorna's .gre.it relief. "I will see to it," she said, holding out her Knd. "We shall meet in the morning. Gcod night." "Good night, dear Sister Paul. "Will you Buy a prayer lor me?" She added the ques tion suddenly, by an impulse of which she was iurdly conscious. "Indeed I will with all my heart, mv child," answered the nun, looking earnestly into her lace. "You are not happy in your life," she iddert, with a slow, sad move ment ot her head. "Xo I am not happy. But I will be." "I tear not," said Sister Paul, almost un der her breath, as she went out softly. TJnorna was lelt alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. It was agonizing to think that the woman she loused to see was so near her, hut that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock at her door and see her aud speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubt as to whether she would recognize her at first sight as the same woman whose shadow had passed between herself and the "Wan derer on that eventlul day a month asro. The shadow had been veiled, but she had a prescient consciousness of the features be neath the veil. .Nevertheless she might be mistaken. The lay sister went out TjDorna ate me chanically what had been set before her, and waited. She felt thit a 'crisis perhaps more terrible than that through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the stranger should prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the "Wanderer loved. Her brain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought lace to face with the woman who had been before hrr, and every cruel and ruthless instinct of her nature rose and took shape in plans for her rival's destruction. She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushed in from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady's footstep when she lelt her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained motionless, fearing lest her own football should prevent the sound from reaching her. The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the night. At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a tread upon the pave ment. She rose quietly and went out, fol lowing in the same direction, fane could see nothing but a dark shadow moving be lore her towar.t the opposite end of the passage, farther and farther from the hang iug lamp. TJnorna could hear her own heart beating as she iollowed, first to the right, then to the lelt There was another light at this point. The lady bad noticed that some one was coming behind her and turned her head to look back. The delicate, dark profile stood out clearly. TJnorna held her breath, waiting swiftly forward. But in a moment the lady went on, and eatered the chapel-like room from which a great balconied window looked down into the church above the choir. As TJnorna went in she saw her kneeling upon one of the stools, her hands folded, her head in clined, her eyes closed, a black veil loosely thrown over ner still blacker hair and fall ing down upon her shoulders without hid ing her face. TJnorna sank upon her knees, compress ing her lips to restrain the incoherent ex clamation that almost broke lrom them in piteof her, clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out upon the marble sur.ace. 1: was, indeed, such a face as a man wonid find it hard to 'orget TJnorna. seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer's mind, had faceted it otherwise, though she could not but recoguize tue reality from the im pression she had received. bhe had imagiued it more ethereal, more faint, more sexless, more ancelic, as she had seed it In hf-r thoughts. Divine it was, but womanly beyond TJnorna's own. Dark, delicately aquiline, tall and Loble, the purity it ex pressed was of earth and notot heaven. A better woman than TJnorna might have felt something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen ofthe kingdom where she longed to reign. TJnorna's cheeks grew very pale, and her unlike eves were fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she could not speak to J Beatrice then, for she wore no mask and the dark beauty would have seen the danger of death in the face of the fair, and would have turned and defended herself in time. The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of the ancient hymn floated up to TJnorna's ears, familiar in years gone by. Almost unconsciously sheherself, by force of old habit, joined in the first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realizing, indeed, the horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips and '-lie thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near sound of a voice less rich and lull, but far more ex quisite and tender than her own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands and parted lips and Upturned face. ... pro tna clementia, Sis pracsul ot lustodia. I'rocul reccdaut somnia. ',: noctlnm phantasmata; Hnstcni quo nostrum comprime." "Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night bind Thou our Foe," sang Beatrice in long, sweet notes. Unnrua heard no more. The light dazzled her and the blood beat in her heart. It seemed as tnough no prayer that was ever praj ed could be offered up directly against herself, and the voice that sang it, though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable distinctly in its magic tones, ' even to a great distance. For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear, but under the nameless impiession that sometimes tikes hold of men and women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundreds below, the nun's despairing look for one instant chilled all her love and all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all, aud f.irever. But the hymn ended, -the voice was silent, aud Sis ter Paul's dance turned again toward tbe altar. Tne moment was past and TJnorna was again what she had been before. Beatrice remained kneeling a few mo ments longer, crossed herself and then rose. At the same moment, TJnorna was on her leet The necessity for immediate action at all costs restored'the calm to her face and the tactiul skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and then, half turn ing her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice precedence in passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first time, and TJnorna anil Seitrice. then by a courteous movement of the head signified that TJnorna should go out first. TJnorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to protest Both women smiled a little and TJnorna, with a gesture of submission, passed through the doorway. She had manaced it so well that it was almost im possible to avoid speaking as thev threaded the long corridors together. TJnorna al lowed a moment to pas, as though to let her companion understand the slight awk wardness of the situation, and then ad dressed her, in a tone of quiet and natural civilitv. "We seem to be the only ladies in retreat," she said. "Yes," Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something ofthe quality of her thrilling voice vibrated lor an instant They walked a few steps farther in silence. "I am not exactly in retreat," she said, presentlj, either because she lelt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or be cause she wished her position to be clearly understood. "I am waiting here for some one who is to come for me." "It is a very quiet place to rest in," said TJnorna. "I am lond of it." "You often come here, perhaps." "Xot now," said TJnorna. "But I was here for a longtime when I was very young." By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walk more slowly, side by side. "Indeed," said Beatrice, with a slight in crease of interest "Then you were brought up here by the nuns?' "Xot exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child. I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care of niyselt." There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in its truth to nature. "Lelt by yonr parents?" Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost inevitable. "I had none. I never knew a father nor a mother." TJnorna's voice grew sad with each syllable. They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were situated, and were approaching Beatrice's door. They walked more and mors slowly, in silence during the last few moments, alter TJnorna had spoken. TJnorna sighed. The passing breath, traveling on the air of the lonely place, seemed both to invite and to offer syin pathy. "My lather died last week," Beatrice said, in a very low tone, that was not quite steady. "I am all alone here and in the world." She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon TJnorna's, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, hungry for human comiort, yet too proud to ask it "I am very lonely, too," said TJnorna. "May I sit with you for awhile?" She had just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. In another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disap peared within. Her heart beat violently until the answer came. She bad been suc cessful. "Will you, indeed?" Beatrice exclaimed. "I am poor companv, but I shall be very glad if you will come in." She opened the door and TJnorna entered. The apartment was almost exactly like her own in size and shape aud furniture, but it already had the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, aud a square jewel case and an old silver frame containing a large photograph of a stern, daptc man in middle age Beatrice s lather, as TJnorna at once understood. Cloaks and lurs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, a large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying a quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colors. "I only came this morning," Beatrice said, as though to apologize lor the dis order. TJnorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from tbe bright lamp with her hand. She conld not help looking at Beatrice, but she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor her conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong and could doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she choe. "Aud do you expect to be here long?" TJnorna asked, as Beatrice established her self at the other end ofthe sofa. "I canuot tell." was the answer. "I may be here but a few days, or I may have to stay a month." "I lived here for years," said TJnorna, thoughtfully. "I suppose it would be im possihle now I should die of apathy and inanition." She laughed in a subdued' way, as though respecting Beatrice's mourniqg. "But I was yountr then," she added, sud denly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, so that the lull light of the lamp tell upou her. She chose to show that she, too, was beau tiful, and she knew that Beatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the gloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her purpose, it was the right one. The effect was sudden and un expected, and Beatrice looked at her almost fixedly in undisguised admiration. "Younc thenl" she exclaimed. "Yon are youi.g now." "Less young than I was then," TJnorna answered with a little ugh, followed in stantly by a smile. "lm five and twenty," said Beatrice, woman' enough to try and force a confession from her new acquaintance. "Are you? I would not have thought it we are "nearly of an age quite, perhaps, for I am not vet 2G. But then, it is not the years " She stopped suddenly. Beatrice wondered whether TJnorna were married or not Considering the age she ad mitted, and her extreme beauty, it seemed probable that she must be. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made without any presentation, and that neither knew the other's name. "Since I am a little the younger," she said, "I should tell rou who I am." TJnorna made a slight movement She was on the point of saying that she knew already and too well. "I am Beatrice Varanger." "I am TJnorna." She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded in her tone as she pronounced the only name site could call hers. "TJnorna?" Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of surprise. "Yes that is all. It seems strange to you? They call me so because 1 was born in February, in the mouth we call TJnor. Indeed, it is strange, and so is my story though it could have little interest for you." "Forgive me you are wrong. It would interest me immensely if you would tell me a little of it but I am such a stranger to you " "1 do not feel as though you were that," TJnnraa answered, with a very gentle smile. "You are very kind to say so," said Bea trice, quietly. TJnorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say the least of it, that she should tell Beatrice the wild story of her life, when they had as yot exchanged barely 100 words. But she cared little what Beatrice thought, provided she could inter est her. She had a distinct intention in makinc the time slip byMinnoticed, until it should be late. She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply and graphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with an abundance of anecdote and comment, which enhanced the interest, and at the same time extended its limits, inter spersing her monologues with remarks which called for an answer, and which served as tests of her companion's attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of unusual power over animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she could exert unon people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have told ou her part, that for years her own life had been dull and empty, and that it was long since she had talked with anyone who had so roused her interest. At last TJnorna was silent She had reached tbe period of herlue which hai be gun a month before that time, and at that point her story ended. '"Then you are not married?" Beatrice's tone expressed an interrogation, and a cer tain surprise. Mo," said TJnorna, "I am not married. And you, if I may ask?" Beatrice started visibly. It had not oc curred to her that the question might seem a natural one for TJnorna to ask, although she had said that sbe was all alone in the world. TJnorna might have supposed her to have lost her husband. But TJnorna could see that it was not surprise alone that had startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a deep and pain ful train of thonght. "Xo," said Beatrice, in an altered voice. "I am not married. I shall never marry." A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away. "I have pained you," said TJnorna, with profound sympathy and regret "Forgive me. How could I be so tactlessl" "How could you know?" Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny the sugges tion. But TJnorna was suffering, too. She had allowed herself to imagine that in tbe long years which had passed Beatrice might plr haps have forgotten. It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed, be mar ried. But in the few words, and in the tremor that accompanied them, as well as in the increased pallor of Beatrice's face, sbe detected a love not less deen and constant and unforgotten than the Wanderer's own. "Forgive me," TJnorna repeated. "I micht have guessed. I have loved, too." She knew that here, at least, she could not feign, and she could not control her voice, but with supreme judgment of effect she allowed herselt to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence her whoU passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, rn till ess. She let .the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the passionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained. The leeliug that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as unhappy and as masterful as her own, uuloosed her tongue. Such things happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong feelings, outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once in their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or a mereacquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend. Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or ot TJuorna's pres ence. The words, long kept back aud sternly restrained, fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife in TJnorna's heart The enor mous jealousy ot" Beatrice, which had been growing withiu her beside her love during the last month, was reaching the climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She harily knew when Beatrice ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her ears. and clasing madly in her own breast and prompting her fierce nature to do some vio lent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy and did not see TJnorna's face. She had forgotten TJnorna herself at last, as she sat staring at the opposite wall. Then she rose quickly, aud taking some thing from the jewel' box, thrust it into TJnorna's hands. "I cannot tell why I have told you but I have. You will see him, too. "What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy we shall never meet again." "What is it?" TJnorna tried to ask, hold ing tbe closed case in her hands. She knew what was in it well enough, and her self command was forsaking her. It was al most more than she could bear. It was as though Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her destroying her rival, as she meant to do, sooner or later. Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and put it again into TJnorna's hands. "It was like him," she said, watching her companion as though to see what effect the portrait would pro duce. Then she shrank back. TJnorna was looking at her. Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, and the ex traordinary contrast in the color of her two eyes was horribly apparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire. The strong est and worst passions that can play upon the human soul were all expressed with aw ful torce in the distorted mask, and not a trace of the magnificent Beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice shrank back in horror. "You know himl" she cried, half guess ing at the truth. 'I know him and I love him," said TJnorna, slowly and fiercely, her eyes fixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning toward her so as to bring her face nearer and nearer to Beatrice. The dark woman tried to rise, and could not. There was worse than anger or hatred or intent to kill in those dreadful eyes. There was a fascination lrom which no liv ing thing could escape. She tried to scream, to shut out tbe vision, to raise her hand as a screen before it. Xearer and neareritcame, until she could feel the warm breath of it upon her cheek. Theu her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed and her head fell back against the wall. "I know him, and I love him," were the last words Beatrice heard. To be Continued Next Sunday. Who laughs last, laughs bestl Salvation Oil has won the race and is on top. Price 25c. Stylish, Saltings, Overcoat and trouscr material, of the best quality at Anderson's, 700 Smithfield street Cutting and fitting the very best sn Stop at the Hollendeu, in Cleveland. American and European plans. su SKELETONS AND GORE Welcome the Yisitqr at the White cliapel Clnb of Chicago. A LETTER FKOJI JACK THE EIPPER. The World's Fair Das a Building in Which to Store Flans. BILL KIB YOCAWZES IN CHDRCH rCOItltlSFODEKCTS Or THE DISPATCH.! Chicago, III., Toward? the Gladsome Spring. ERHAFS no institution of the great, throbbing, chin whiskered "West is more unique or more dis tinctive than tbe "White chapel Club of this city. It is a bright, cheery little crypt, which is reached through a narrow, somber stab in the still blacker blackness, and soon to be called Whitechapel alley, opening off La Salle street Inside all is cozy and bright. You enter bv going down several steps, and find yourself in an anteroom, on tbe left J of which is the tap room and on tne right the reception vault or general sarcophagus. Bright and cheery skeletons hang up wherever the pleased eye .rambles o'er tbe walls, and blood spattered garments, torn by tbe Coroner from murdered innocence, soften the harsh outlines ofthe bony decora tions. Skulls with phosphorescent eyes in them stand upon the whatnots or whatsnot, perhaps I should say here and there. Choorial and Appetizing. All is-cheery and appetizing, especially to the weary mind and the tired and spent brain. Here we see several white, ghost dance garments from Wounded Knee, upon which the blood yet looks nice and fresb. Here is a large Westward hoe with which an irritated farmer killed several ot his chil dren in an unguarded moment Over yon der is the somewhat battered and knock kneed charger formerly belonging to Herod's somewhat morbid daughter. Many lelics, from the early history of crime and horror to that of the present day, are here here to please, to beguile and to perpetuate. Yonder is the cloven helmet of a Haymarket policeman, and back of it a model ofthe gallows on which tbe Anarchists were hanged. Comfortable solitude is said to be tbe ob ject of the London club, and in this respect it is doubtless modeled after the White chapel Club, of Chicago. Solitude, sur rounded by a wealth of brass knuckles, highbinders' knives wilh fresh gore on them, freshened each day by tbe Armour abattoirs, and skeletons from which ever add anon a vertebra, a patella or a few phalanges fall with a startling yet sodden plunk on tne deadened floor, may surely be found here. Endowed by Jack the Hipper. The Whitechapel Club, of Chicago, was endowed some two years ago by Jack tbe Kipper for the purpose of engendering a more fraternal feeling toward humanity, and also to advance intellectual refinement and encourage thought waves. Realizing tbe uncertainty of life, 'he desired, he said, to perpetuate his name in this way. "I might be cut down at any time," said he, "as my night work, of course, is one qt con stant exposure to the unwholesome atmos phere of London. Besides," he added, "there is a growing feeling of antagonism toward me here. Sometimes 1 think I would like to try the climate of America, but I am afraid I would get run over and killed by the professional drunkards who drive drays over people in JNew xorfc, or it I came to Chicago I might get 'binged' and die ot pneumonia. So, perhaps, I am as well off here among friends, suppressing vice and evading the keen-eyed police, as I would be in America, where the social evil does not as yet own the town. "Do all that you can," he sajd, "to make the club cheerful and bright.1 I send by this steamer a gray plaid shawl, stiff with 1 the gore of Xo. 3. It will make a nice piano cover, I think. Could you not ar range with the city to combine vour dining fflftrV-X In the Whitechapel Club. room with the city morgue, so that rent could be saved and your dining ball have about it a home-like air which money alone canuot procure? Gets tlio Ulaes at Times. "I am almost discouraged at times when I see how slowly I am getting along with my great work looking toward the suppression of vice, but I wil 1 not give up. I am de termined to press on and carve my way to fame.' Keep up the kindest club spirit, and yet admit no one who has ever led a life of shame. We cannot be too careful, I think, in this regard. "I am going out again this evening to see if I can catch up a little with my work. I am now away behind. When I get this job done I am thinking of operating on a lew titled Englishmen who need killing very much. I am very anxious to be tnrough with my work, for, as I say, it keep3 me away lrom home so much at night. Fly swiftly round, ye wheels of time, and bring the welcome day! "Jliss Bompard, of Paris, wishes to con tribute to the club a trunk, scarf, etc., for our dining room. They will be sent within a few weeks." I wish I had more time to speak of the bric-a-brac ot the Whitechapel Club, but have not, of course. Suffice it that, with the walls covered over with bones, blood stained cleavers, knives and slung shots, with a loaded door spring billy here, and over there the dried and weather-beaten boot of a soldier from the Custer battlefield, in which the bones of the afoot could still be seen, the president apologized for tbe ab sence of 11 skeletons which had been loaned to a well-known physician for scientific pur poses. He said that to him the absence of these 11 skeletons seemed to leave the room sort of bare and inhospitable. The World's Fair Plans. The World's Fair is getting on firstrate. A nice little building is being erected now in which to store the plans. This is a great stride. The plans are valued at (300,000. I would not give that lor them, ot course, but that is because I am not a plan collector. My fancy does not run in that direction. The flying machine, or air ship, is at the old Exposition building. It is quite buoy ant, and bobs around at a great rate. It is about as liable to be successful aerial navi gation, according to the general opinion, as the old Comstock mine of Virginia is to crawl out of its' hole some night an climb iS?--r WMITCHAPEl tg upon a moonbeam by means of a pair of rol ler skates. But we shall see. . . On Sunday I went to Central Music Hall to hear Prof. Swing. He is a plain man, with iron gray hair, cut straight across at tbe neck, like 'Mr. Beecber's and John the Baptist's. He is tall and serious looking, bnt able, qh I bow able he is 1 The day was very rainy, and I plodded through tbe mud feeling that I was doing a noble thing to actus Prof. Swing's audience on such a day. But others were there. Slowly the audience room filled up, and when the organ struck up a nocturne with cuckoo interlude, and the organist was feel ing around over tbe features of bis instru ment for some new stons to pull out, the scats were comfortably filled, and remained so till the service was over. Tqere was no choir. -The organist sat by himself up ini the loft, and toyed with ' the valves and things, unmoved and unvexed by the yonng people who generally eat butterscotch and talk like a theater party while'not vocaliz ing. A slender young man with a far away and pensive look led the congregation in song by means of a small baton which he waved to and fro, but which he did not of fer to play on. Nye Does a Great Act I burst forth into song. I could not help it. People near me looked around, struck by my strange, wild melody. Some seemed startled. Others were visibly affected, and rH JQ Pfe) A. x-Y?-'-a nl si Bunting InloSong. would have repented if they had been en couraged, I tbink. Conviction could be seen on their faces; also remorse and sorrow for the past. One man read a newspaper during the early part of the service. . I could hear an usher near me cussing him for his lack of reverence but, the man went von reading about the baccarat scandal in England, and of how a bright little child in Michigan had recently been boiled in a kettle of hot maple sap. Before and all through the services the rattle of the lesson leaf was very disturbing, especially to those who desired to hear and criticise the prayer. I wonld suggest the leather covers used in restaurants some times for these hymn slips to deaden the sound and keep them clean. They would not rattle themselves cr the speakerso much then. Prof. Swing "is a great big brainy man." He does not get his sermons from tne worn wax cylinders of his mind, or reel off the thunken thoughts of men now dead and turned to dust. He is a dig, broad man, in the shade of whose mighty think works, to use a simile ot his own. the little poison weeds of doubt and distrust die out and dis appear. Great minds, like great trees, get all tbe sunlight, and the breeze, and the ozone, or whatever it is which they require in theirbusiness, and at their feet the little measly jinison weeds of schism and those things cnrl up and die. Meantime, far above, and refusing to monkey with the trivial dogmas and the palid, noxious growth below, the brave, big tree tosses its grand old arms about, aud the birds come there and Inula their nests and spoon around in the early spring, and thank God for the beautiful and the bully old universe, so free to use temporarily and tnen return in good order to the Creator. Applauded With Els Umbrella. David seemed to know that I was there, and so he spoke well. 1 applauded him once with my umbrella, but was reproached for it by a heavier-set man than I am, so did not carry it to excess. Speakingof General Sherman Prof. Swing Slid: "What a glorious thing it is for us that God never repeats himseltl He gives us a man equally great in some ways for the dne we have lost, bnt never again tbe same arrangement of talents. What a grand man was General Sherman! A character like his has an eternal monopoly of itself. The perfect man has the affections, the under standing and the will equally balanced. The scholar is ant to cultivate his under standing at the expense of his will and his affections." Thus he Dccomes a bloodless, flabby hun gerer for more books, more problems, more to read; a loveless, abnormal man, a lop sided copartnership between a wabbly will, a weak affection and a cerebral tapeworm. fThe language is not Pro'. Swine's only the idea, the thought germ. The word painting is mine.) So, likewise, the drunkard and tbe liber tine allow tbe affections to run away with the will aud the understanding, -while the stubborn man permits his will to ride with Mexican spurs over his' affections and his understanding. He has firmness, and that is all. He does not love anybody or know anything. He is the greatest anthropoid jackass of the age in which he lives. Bill Nye. SAVIHG THE PENNIES. How a Philadelphia Hank Encourages the Yonng to Thrift. Philadelphia Kecord. Ot the many ira?s that have been devised of late to encourage the children of the land in treasuring up their stray pennies, in the hope of developing them into respect able bankaccounts, the scheme now in use by the West Philadelphia Sav ing Fund is prob ably the most unique as well as practical. This organization, which is a branch of the West Philadelphia Bank, has been in existence less than six months, during which time the number of its depositors has totaled over a thousand. Being aware that many would hesitate in bringing small amounts to the bank, the directors of this institution hit upon the idea of supplying depositors with a recep tacle for their'spare change until they would have sufficient to make a respectable deport. These were given to the depositors on the latter paying S3 as security for the return of the bank. The safe is made of nickel plated brass, with combination locks and is highly ornamental and convenient The money thus deposited can be only taken out at the office of the Savings Fund, as the officers retain the keys. One of these is in serted iu the hole made in tbe front, while the other relieves the lock and opens tbe bank by being placed in the hole on the side. A passbook is given to each depos itor, and tbe S3 left as security is credited to their account. Authors to Go Into Printing. .. The announcement by cable that Walter Besant, William Black and others are talk ing about organizing a society of English authors to establish in New York a print ing house where first copies of their books, necessitated by the new copyright law, can be printed simultaneously with tbe making ofthe book iu England, is bailed by the printing profession as simply a foretaste of the good things to come under the new law. W'l ' CQNYICTION OF SIN. Witbont It-There Can Be No Begin ning of a Life That Is Belief. ST. PAUL'S ' IDEA OP HIMSELF. A Lous Distance Between Unman Imperlec tfbn and Ferfeetlon. ODE !ATUKE ESSENTIALLY S1NPDL IWBtTflOT POB TUB DISPJLTCn.I The first step toward anything better is to recognize that there is something better. All progress begins with the realization of defect. When a man gets discontented there is some hope for him. One day Thorwald sen carved a statne which satisfied him. He flung down his chisel in despair. He knew that he had come to the end of his art The prodigal in the parable came at last into a condition of profound discontent His feast was followed by a famine. He fell upon evil fortunes. He began to be in want That was the best thing that had happened to him since he left his father's house. It was then, in the midst of his want, that he came to himself. He recog nized that he was badly off. He realized that he had made an evil bargain. He began to tbiuk about his home, abont all those better conditions which had once entered into his life, and which he had lost out of it. He perceived that even the hired servants who worked on his father's farm were better off than he was. At the same time, he was sure that this better condition was still possible for him. Anyway, he could improve upon this life among the pigs. So he set his face toward home and better living. The Conviction of Sin. This is the history of all amendment and reformation. Then comes a famine, and men begin to be in want. For the first time they realize what they are and where they are. A great discontent takes hold upon them. The name of this condition of mind, in tbe language of religion, is tbe convic tion of sin. The emphatic word of the Christian rel igion, on the divine side of it, is the word "salvation;" and the word which corre sponds to that, on the human side, is the word"sin." Christ came to save us from our sins. Not to save us simply from the punishment which our sins deserve: that is not tbe meaning of salvation. Not to save us at some far distant day from being con signed to the company of the devil and his angels in the dreadful abodes of hell: that is not the salvation which Christ came to bring. He came to save us from our sins now, in this life, in the face of our every day temptations, to save us from our sins. It is evident that our regard lor Him, our estimate of the value of His life and death, our sense of our own personal need of Him.- will depend upon'our realization of our own sinfulness. If we have no sin, we have no need of a Savior. If our sins which need forgiveness are bnt Jew, then our love for Him who forgives our sins will be propor tionately small. If we are living a pretty good life, with which we are fairly wll content, the probability is that religion has not mnch meaning for us. Christ was a man of ideal character, a teacher of supreme authority in ethics, a saint and a" hero pleasant to think about but nothing more. The meaning of religion, and the place which Christ holds in the regard ot our souls, rest upon our sense of sin. The Confession' of Sin. We all need this deepening of the sense of sin. We need a renewed and emphasized consciousness ofthe fact of sin-, as it touches us. "Oh, God, the Father of Heaven, liave mercy upon us, miserable sinners!" We pray that, but do we mean it? The words are on our lips; do they honestly come out of our hearts? "Miserable sinnerc" Does that name fairly describe u? All' these well-dressed, well-behaved people, all this good company of respectable men and women, is that what we really are, miser able sinners? All the time committing miserable sins, in thought, word and dead, provoking most justly God's wrath and in dignation against us, bearing about an in tolerable burden of transgression? Are we miserable sinners? At least, we are miserably self-deeeitfnl. Because that belongs to human nature. We will undoubtedly get a truer sense of sin if we examine ourselves. That is a good exercise for the season just ended the exer cise of self-examination. Take the ten commandments, one by one, putting Christ's interpretation upon them. Remember that the first of the command ments is summed up in this sentence: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind." Remember that "Thou shalt do no murder," forbids all anger, all untruthfulness, all neglect or refusal to for give; and that "Thou shalt not commit adultery" forbids every impure thought; and that "Thou shall not steal" forbid.: the very smallest dishonesty, interferes with half a hundred conventionalities of trade; and that "Thou shall not bear false witness against thy neighbor" forbids all unneigh- borly speech, all unkind comment, all pleasure iu scandal, and coes straight against a fourth part (at least) of ordinary conversation. Iiead these ten command ments and ask yourself questions. The Vows of Baptism. Aud then take the vows of baptism. Yon are to renounce the devil and all his work", the pomps and vanities ot this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh. Think that over slowly, and compare your life with it. And then take the sermon on the Mount, study the Deatitudes. Are you hungry and thirsty after righteousness, meek, poor in spirit.making peace, shoeing mercy. Look at the verse where Christ asks fur a right eousness which shall exceed tiiat of all the moral scribes and pbarisees. See what He says about loving your enemies, and about having vour treasure in heaven, and abont thinking very little about what we shallt eat, and what we shall drink, and where withal we shall be clothed, but setting first tbe kingdom of God and His righteousness. Is all this true of you? But even this is not the whole of it. Our Lord's description of the Final Judgment shows that we shall beheld to account not only for our actual words, and thoughts, and deeds, but for our opportunities. . This and that ye have not done, is the indictment. Day by day, we are surrounded by oppor tunities innumerable. We have a thousand chances to guide, to counsel, to help, to minister, to influence. Probably we let nine hundred and seventy-five of them go by daily. This you might have done; thus and thus yon might have expended your time, your ability, your money; and 'you did it not. Who will claim that he lives up to his opportunities? Depends Upon the Ideal. The ideal that we set before uj makes all the difference in the world iu our estimate of onr success in character. It is certain that everybody who has a contented opinion of his own li'e, and is not conscious of grave defects in it, and has no sensaof the sinfulness of it, is following' some other ideal than that which ought to be set before the hearts of Christians. The life of Christ is the measure for our life. In proportion as we study that life, and learn how it was lived, aud get closer to it and so see it clearer, we will discover how to estimate ourselves. By and by we will come to appreciate what St Paul meant when, after years of lollowing Christ, he wrote beside tbe sen tence in which be spoke of Christ's coming to save sinners, "of whom I am chief." He meant that there was only one sinner iu tbe world with whom be was perfectly ac quainted, and that sinner's name was Paul. And he knew what a sinner Paul was. You know how it is when yon open the shutters and let all tbe light into the room. If any thing is out of place, if there is dust or dis order in the room, you will see it The' dusk hides all that Let the light of the I S- life of Christ into any heart, and there will be a revelation of disorder. There will be a realization of sin. Keep out that light and yon may go about for years, fancying that yon are tbe least of sinners, deceiving your own soul. We are all under sin. There is none righteons, no, not one. All have sinned and come short ofthe glory of God. ' Sin Dwelleth in Men. This is bad enough, but even this-is not tbe whole of it To these facts about onr sins, we have to add still another fact the fact of sin. J.t is not only that day by day we do wrong, and think wrong, and speak wrong. It is notonly that there is a defect and a misdireWion in our hands and in our lips. There w something the "matter with our hearts. "Sin dwelleth in me," says St Paul. "For I know that in me dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me, but bow to perform that which is. good I know not. For the good'that I wonld I do not; but the evil that I would not that I do. I find a law that when I would do good, evil is present with me. O wretched Inan that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death." It we really know ourselves, we know that all these words are true about our selves. There is something radically and profoundly wronsr. We recognize this clearly enough iaour dealings with chil dren. We know that if human nature is leit to itself, left to grow up and flower and bear fruit aslt will, the resultwill bea fear ful harvest of sin. So we set safeguards and correctives in the way.s We try to change that. Human nature is essentially sinful. There is in everyone of us a tend ency toward sin. Mr hat then is sin? The parable defines it well enough. Sin means separation lrom uoa. xne prodigal departs Into a far coun try. Tnere he spends his substance which his father has given him npon objects which he knows very well his father would not ap prove of. That is what sin is. It is a de parture from the obedience of God. It is a spending of time and interest upon that which is against God, It is a consequent avoidance of the face of God and a shun ning of the thought of God. The Wages of Sin Is Death. The outcome of all this is plain. The wages of sin is death. Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap. We are all the time sowing the seeds of evil. Sin con tinued in means separation from God for ever. And that is death e'verlasting. That is what sin leads to. It leads down into the pit The consequence of it is misery un speakable. ' Sin is spiritual disease. It lays hold upon our souls. If, bv some sort of magic, there could be a revelation of onr souls, so that the soul should be made visible, and we could see it wha't a sight, what a hospital of sick souls! Some maimed, some dwarfed, some starvine, some seized with loathsome maladies, horrible to look nponl None righteous, no, not one! None whole" aud sound, no, not onel What an infirmary of souls! And everybody knows well enough what unchecked disease results in. Death is at the end of it Thus we are in dauger of losing ou' souls. Whoever would learn anything more about the meaning of sin, he can read it on the cross. There it is written plain in everybody's eyes. Sin is so dreadful that tbe Son ol God was content to die to save us from it It we are inclined to make light of u, 10 set it down aimpertection, to explain it as tbe remainder of our "brute inherit ance,'' and thus to Quiet the warnings of our conscience there is no cross. What does the cross mean, if it don't-mean the exceed ing dreadfulness of sin? The Malady of the So at We all are sinners exceedingly. This is the conclusion of the 'whole matter. We are setting our faces in a wrong direction, away from God. We are Walking steadily along a path which falls -presently into a pit without a bottom. We are sick with a disease which threatens the very death of our souls. Unless we have made the great discovery. There is no help for us unless we have found or shall find the helper. Grant us a guide who shall set us in a better path which leads to life. Send us a physi cian wno can neai tne malady ot our soul. That is what we want And if we do want that, then, as I said at the beginning, there is hope for us. Tbe prodigal came to him self. He looked about him; and a supreme discontent came over him. He realized where he was, away off from his father's home. Then he turned about. So will we in proportion as we are convicted of sin. We will be dissatisfied with our unsatisfy ing lives. There will come a creat longing into our hearts to" be better. We will real ize the need of help. That is where religion begins. Religion is help. That Is where the love of Christ. which Is the heart of religion, his its source. We need help, and here is the Helper. We want a guide, and here is the Way, the Trutb, and the Life. We desire a physician, and here is the Divine Physician of 'our souls. "We all like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every'one to his own way, and the Lord hath laid upon him the iniquity of us all." Hera at last is snre salvation. And we turn to Christ with hands outstretched and hearts full of love. O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me lrom tne npdy ot this death? I thank Gad, cries the a'nojtle, through Jesus Christ our Lord. For this is a true saying and worthy of all men to be received, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. George Hodges. THEY BRIDLED THE SCOLD. Awful rnnishment to Which Women Were Subject at One Time. Mew York Press. An instrument of punishment formerly much used iu England,, but never in this country, was the "brank," or "scold's bridle," or "gossip's bridle," used ou women. It consisted of a crown framework of iron, which was locked upon the hea3 and was armed in front with a gag, a plate or sharp cutting knife or point-wbich was placed in tbe mouth so as to prevent the tongue being moved without it being cut in a horrible manner. 'With this cage upon her head and with the gag pressed and locked against her tongue, the miserable creature, whose sole offense perhaps was that she had raised her voice in defense of 3 Tfie Bridle in Position. her social rights against a brutal or besotted husband, or had spoken honest truth of some one high hi office in the town, was paraded through' the streets led by a chain held in the hands of .the bellman, tbe beadle or the constable, or else sbe was chained to tbe pillory, the whipping post or the market cross, and subjected to every conceivable insult without even the power left hei of asking for mercy or of promising amendment for the future; and when tbe punishment was over sbe vVas turned out from the town hall maimed, disfigured, faint and degraded, to'be tbe subject of comment and jeering among her neighbors, and to be reviled by her persecutors. Income of New Tark Doctors. A prominent New York doctor says the bright young men of his profession in that city are making from 51,200 to $3,000 a year. If at the expiration of ten years a practitioner finds himself in receipt of $3,000 income, he mar flatter himself that he has Ci done Ter veil, - - i PHOTOS m COLORS. Kewly-Discoyered Facts Abont Pictures the Snn Paints. tna TINTS WHICH KO MAN EYR SAW. Taking Photographs on Kewspapers.LeaTM' and Blocks.of Wood. SSAP SHOTS AT THE BABI FISHES rWBtTTXS rOB Till DISPATCH. Whatever may be accomplished eyent nally in the way of reproducing colors of permanence by photography, the process for doing this, newly discovered by M. Lipp mson, is scarcely to be considered yet ai more than one ofthe many curiosities of a marvelous art Some day before very long, doubtless, this or other methods will be so far perfected that the taking of people's portraits with the coloring of the originals will be practicable; great paintings will be copied impcrishably though time must de stroy the paintings themselves with the camera, and the same apparatus will ba utilized for makinc the sun himself do land scapes in the twinkling of an eye with all the tints of nature'. With relation to the ultra-red and infra violet, invisible to tbe human eye,whichtbe French Academician finds exhibited as black bands in his reproduction of tbe colors in the rainbow, Prcf. Langley, Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, has made some astonishing discoveries recently. The ultra red is to the left of the red end of tbe rain bow, while the infra-violet is to the right of the violet end, the length of tbe rainbow be ing in this manner added to in both direc tions. Widening the Kainbow. What could be more interesting than these hues unknown to us, to which, so Prof. L-ingley says, roses aud other flowers owe much of the exquisite beauty of their color ing? By an instrument of his own inven tion, inexpressibly delicate, which be calls a "bolometer," this famous scientist has traced tbe rainbow to more than twice its visible length. The contrivance a thin film of iron, through which a current of electricity is passed is moved along over a rainbow, cast by the sun through a prism, registering the heat of the hidden rays by the interruption ofthe current. In this way it is made known that we are actually able to see bnt a small fraction of a rainbow. Who can tell what gorgeous colors, different from any ever beheld by man, lie concealed to his imperfect vision along the path be yond the violet and the red? It is amazing how simple and evident some inventions are. when once tbey are hit upon. It was the Emperor Nero who used the first eyeglass a monocle, by the way. He was near-sighted, and he found that a certain big concave emerald in his jewel col lection enabled him to see with a much Im proved vision what went on in the circus at tbe gladiator shows. His notion was that tbe gem was magical, but there was the original presy opic lens, if only any one had bad lbs wit to look through it with tbe zaze of scientific specu lation. Bat no one did. and so it was not for IS centuries that spectacles were invented, A Newspaper Is Sensitized. Totnako apbotograph, the most important requirement is a surface that is sensitive to light. Yon imagine that chemistry Is required to make such a surface, bnt that Is not true. Tbe newspaper on which these words are printed has a sensitized surface. Tear off this page, when you are tbrongh reading It, and it will make you a very fair photographic print, if jon wilt lay a glass negative upon it and ex pose It to tbe sun for a while. Imagine yonrel feast away upon an unin habited island. Happily you have presgrved your bat, your spectacles and a note book. You fit one of yonr spectacle lenses into tbe crown ot your hat and cut a strip of bark to close ud tbe opening intended for your head. Tbat is a camera. Next you tear a page fromyonrnote- dook, previously arieii. ana ruoit over witn some juice saneezed from lowers. Flower juice Is an admirable sensitizing medinm;a few years ago it wasatillzed to some. extent la photography. Ihe page thus sensitized you attach inside to the barkbactc of the hat, and your photograph is soon made upon the paper. wiinoat me intervention oi a negative, nut you might not have a hat, nor spectacles, nor yet a notebook; bnt you conld surely make some sort of a bo-c with a very small bole in ona side and a big leaf attached to the back. In tbe absence of a lens, the small bole does very well to concentrate tbe rays of light npon the leaf, which has, like all leaves, a sensitive sur face. Thus you obtain your photograph. A smooth plank of wood has a highly sensitive surface. It is wortn mentioning, by tbe way, tbat a traveler in tbe Arctic regions could make a very respectable lens out of a cako of ice. Some Novel Applications. The curiosities of photography are only be ginning to be discovered. Some photographs were made tbe other day by telescope of the statue of America vulgarly supposed to rep resent the Goddess of Liberty on tbe dome of tbe cauitol. Some very interesting photo graphs havo been made at the National Mu seum. Washington, of mushrooms in progress ive stages of growth. One scries represents tbe development and propagation of the "fairy-ring" mushroom, respecting which so many pretty superstition fancies are current, Kacu ringCis began with a single mushroom, which, when it decays, is replaced by a number " of little ones. The latter multiply rapidly, and the exhaustion of tbe nutritive material in tbe soil causes tlioso in the middle to die out for want of sustenance, so tbat the outside ones gradually spread outward until a ring of them Is formed perhaps as mnch as four or five feet in diameter. Fairies might find a pleasant place to trio in within the circle thus made, but. alas! there 13 no evidence that they find repose between tbe turns npon the dainty little stools. Another thing which photography has been used to Illustrate, by tliu Fish Commission In this Instance. i3 the crowth of the shad in tbe egg. At the beginning a microscopic poliywog from the iniU" of a male nsh makes its way into one of a myriad cgsa ot the female fish through a little holo in the sirin of the egg and thus rfves life to ine germ. When ttm has bnt Just been accomplished, the egg. uiaznifled 100 times in the photograph, shows the youn nib in the shape of a dirk spot on one side. This dark spot in subsequentdaily pictures becomes rapidly larger, until it i seen to develop a tall and finally to escape from tho shell. Sookmaklngby Photography. One of the most wonderf nl uses ot photog raphy recently devised Is tbaf by which a whole edition of a book is turned ont automat ically by the camel a. A single page is repro duced at a time, a clockwork device being so arranged that, by the shifting of a continnous Siripof paper, tue negative of the page prints copy after copy, each blank being exposed for juit the necessary time. A carious sort of composite photography has recently been tried with human skulls, of . which it was attempted in this way to obtain representative types mr scientific purposes. For pxaruple. a composite was made of a - 'number ot mnrderers' skulls. The Govern- ment Lighthouse Hoard also has employed - . -photography lately for the purpose of flutjlng ont what sort of lamp gave tbe greatest amount of light. Perhaps tho most extraordinary application -of photography "hat it ispnssfble to mention is found in tho multiform mechanical processes osedattbe present day for tbe reproduction of pictures. In tbe illustrating of magazines tbe art of wood-catting has been almost entire ly superseded hr photo-engraving in oneshapa or another. Until recently it was thought im possible to reprodnce in this way anything but a drawing composed of lines; hat now even a painting can be copied off-baud In the Shape ot a cot by the rimple device of placing a gauze screen between tbe picture and tbe camera, the network of tbe gauze breaking up the solid lichts aud shadows so as to make them repro ducible. A much belter way of accomplishing thi, however, has been lately Invented, by cut ting cross-lines on the glass negative itself. Thus you find in tbe newspapars of to-day most oeautlful engravings or actual works of art, done within a few hours, which- would have takeo the hand-workman not long ago months to turn out. Hexe Uache. A CHAEGE AGAINST PITTSBTOG. Ono of New York's Batchers Tells Tala Abont Stock: Xard Practices. "Well, there' are tricks in all trades, yon know," says a New .York butcher in the Times, of tbat city, "and one in the butcher business is, when the cattle are watered and fed in Pittsburg they are given a quantity of salt in their fodder, so tbat when tbey ar t rive at the stock yards they are very thirsty. J. . Of course thv rlrint- wnipv f a thittr bear JfeP content and when a wholesale dealer bursa bunch of cattle be pays for the water as well pit as tne animal, cnarp dodge, en .
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers