THE MASTER.
A2T IMITATION.
2. Tell me, oh, Sagel What is the truo
ideal?.
A. A rnnr I knew a living soul and real.
Q. Tell me, my friend! "Who was this
mighty master?
A. The child of wrong, the pupil of disaster
Q. Under whattraining grew his lofty
mind?
A. In cold neglect and poverty combined.
Q. What honors crowned his works with
wealth and praise?
A. Patience and faith and love filled all his
days. .
' Q. And when he died what victories had he
won?
A. Humbly to live and hope his work was
done.
Q. What mourning nations grieved above
his bier?
A. A loving eye J dropped there a sorrowing
tear.
Q. But History, then, will consecrate his
sleep?
A. IILsJname is lost; angels his record keerr
William P. Johnston, in th Century.
LITTLE DOT.
44 lie's a splendid card," exclaimed the
manager, enthusiastically.
"Is he, indeed?" said Vance Raymond,
rather abstractedly, as he gazed at the
packed auditorium.
They were standing in the lobby of the
Varieties. Raymond had dropped in for
a few minutes while making his nightly
round of the theatres. The manager,
eager for a good notice in the daily upon '
which his companion served as a dra
matic critic, was making himself almost
offensively agreeable.
"The hit of the show !" he emphati
cally affirmed. '"You'll wait for him,
won't you? He comes on next."
"I don't know whether I can spare the
time," said Raymond, smoothing out the
play bill that had been crumpled" up in
Ids hand. And, in type which stood out
bolder than the rest, he read:'
LITTLE DOT!
" The Phenomenal Child Artist, in his
wonderful character changes " followed
"by more terms of a laudatory character,
similarly extravagant.
Raymond carelessly cast his programme
aside and watched the two upon the
stage. They were going through what
figured on the bills as an "acrobatic song
and dance." Presently they executed a
remarkable somersault that brought forth
a cloud of dust and made their exit, fol
lowed by the deafening applause of the
gallery. In response they came out and
bowed," and the stamping of feet and
clapping of hands gradually ceased.
The quiet that fell upon the house was
broken by the tinkle of the prompter's
bell. . The eyes of the audience expect
antly sought the wings. The musicians
raised their instruments and began to
play one of the popular airs in vogue.
"Watch him," whispered the manager.
4 'A born actor, and no mistake."
As he spoke, a little figure, clad in a
black velvet suit with delicately striped
pink stockings, appeared on the stage.
A crimson handkerchief protruded slight
ly from his pocket and an eye-glass
dangled at his side. In his hand he
held a light cane, which he twirled fop
pishly at intervals.
Such a pinched, wan . face he turned
toward the audience, as he began his
song in the yellow glare of the foot
lights! A feverish flush was on his
cheeks and his eyes sparkled with un
natural brilliancy. Raymond felt his
heart grow soft with pity as he listened
to the rare, sweet voice that to his ex
perienced ear already showed signs of
breaking.
"Poor little chap," he murmured;
'he's scarcely seven, I should judge."
And somehow a tender thought of his
two little chicks, dreaming perhaps of
their childish heroes at the time, came to
him. lie watched Little Dot through
the mist that had gathered in his eyes.
The song soon came to an end and the
child disappeared, followed by the en
thusiastic approval of the audience. The
manager joined in the applause and
turned to Raymond, his face beaming
with pleasure.
"Eh ? eh ?" he said, delightedly.
"Doesn't he bring down the house ? An
infant prodigy, and all that, you know.
'Ponmy word, its worth the price of ad
mission to see him alone."
"Rather a lit subject for the Society for
thi Prevention of Cruelty to Children, I
should say," remarked Raymond, dryly.
"For my part I hate your infant prodi
gies. They all ought to be in their beds
at this hour enjoying the sleep of health
ful children."
The manager eyed him sharply.
"Stuff and nonsense 1" ho grunted.
Then, in a more cheerful tone: "Just
watch him this next turn. His drunken
man is something wonderful. I'm capa
ble of criticising that, you know." And
he hushed the chuckle on his lips as Lit
tle Dot a complete metamorphosis
staggered in with a high silk hat
crushed over his eyes and a white hand
kerchief hanging from his coat-tail
pocket.
The. drunken hiccough and thick ut
terance with which he rendered the song
fairly convulsed the audience. When
he was through, he was greeted with a
terrific storm of applause.
"True to lite, wasn't it?" "laughed the
manager. " Well, it ought to be. lie's
had plenty of chances to get points,
goodntss knows. His father's Whitely,
of the .'Stars,' who are playing at the
Globe this week. Good actor, but
bcozes too much. That is why he and
his wifa separated. It's lucky she's got
the boy. He's worth a cool seventy-five
dollars to her every week."
Raymond listened with eyes intent
tipon the stage. Little Dot was respond
ing to his second encore. When he fin
ished he was vociferously redemanded.
Again he came out and delivered a pa
thetic little recitation that evoked fresh
applause. Raymond grew indignant.
" What a shame !" he muttered, an
grily. "They'd keep the poor little
fellow before them the whole night if
they could."'
At that moment Little Dot appeared
from the wings and raised his hand to
his lips. The pink glow on his cheeks
had died out. and in its place was a look
of utter weariness. The audience must
have noticed it, for the house grew still
and the performance proceeded with the
next act.
Raymond buttoned up his overcoat
.closely and left the theatre. It was a bit
ter night and the streets were well-nigh
deserted. The snow lay deep upon the
ground, and a raw, bleak wind blew the
still falling flakes remorselessly into his
face. In spite of all his efforts he could
not dismiss the peaked, wan face from
his thoughts. A picture rose before him
of Little Dot, trudging his way back to
the hotel in all the snow at an hour when
, other children were cosily tucked away
in bed, and his heart was filled with pity
at the contrast.
"Poor little chap !" he said again, with
a sigh. I'll give him a good notice."
The next night found him at the Va
rieties behind the scenes. At his request
he was taken by the manager to the
dressing-room that Little Dot occupied,
and introduced to him. The child was
with his mother waiting to "go on."
"It's the gentleman who was kind
enough to write that notice about you,"
she said to him. "You must thank him
for it."
"Oh, it was you, was it?" he said, turn
ing his big blue eyes up at Raymond.
"You're an editor, ain't you?"
The awe with which he asked this
question brought a smile to Raymond's
face.
"Not exactly," he replied. "I write
for the newspapers."
"Do you?" said the child, eagerly.
"How clever you must be! And it was
you who wrote that about me. Thank
you very mnch. You are very, very
good."
He placed his hand to his forehead and
held it there a moment. Raymond no
ticed it and looked grave.
"Are you quite well?" he asked, kindly.
"Quite well," the child faltered.
"Only only I'm a little tired and my
headaches. Hurry, mamma," as the call
boy appeared at the door; and, turning
to Raymond, he held out his little hand.
.' 'G ood-by e, " he said. 4 'Its time for me
to go on."
Little Dot hastened with his mother
through the dark and gloomy passage
leading to the stage, and stood 'at a wing
waiting for his cue. His mother stationed
herself near by to assist him in making
his changes.
Raymond and the manager sought the
front of the house.
"That youngster is going to be sick,"
said the journalist, with, conviction, as
they parted. "He looked half ill now.
It's too bad that such a weak, delicate
child should have to be out nights in such
bitter weather." ,
"Eh, what was that? . Sick, did you
say?" cried the manager, with, alarm. "I
hope not I hope not. It might affect
business, you know, if he didn't appear.
He is the strongest card on the bill this
week." '
Raymond curled his lip slightly at the
other's heartlessness; and walked off
Somehow Little Dot interested him
strangely. It might have been that he
regarded the tiny favorite of the foot
lights with pitying tenderness, for the
sake of his own children.
The next night he returned to the Vari
eties to find the fears he had entertained
realized. The manager met him with a
note in his hand.
"Read it," he said, with a scowl upon
his face.
Thus adjured, Raymond took it, and
glanced hurriedly at the contents. It was
to the effect that Little Dot was danger
ously low with the scarlet faver, and, as
a consequence, could not perform the
rest of the week.
The words he read brought up a vivid
recollection of the two babes who had
lain in the terrible grasp of the scarlet
fiend until only the great mother-love had
won them back to life. A lump took
possession of his throat.
"Poor Little Dot," he murmured.
"I wouldn't have had it happen for a
hundred dollars," grumbled the mana
ger. "It places me in a deuce of a fix.
It's almost impossible to put any one on
in his place at such'short notice."
"You're in hard Lines," said Raymond,
coldly.
Something imrfelled him before he
went to the newspaper office that night
to seek the second-class hotel where the
Aild and his mother were stopping.
Passing a florist's on his way, he pur
chased a bunch of the creamy, full
blown roses that were temptingly dis
played in the window. These he sent to
the sick room with his card and a request
to know how the little fellow was.
Presently th.e answer came no better.
Would he go up? Mrs. Whitely would
like to see him.
Raymond followed the boy upstairs
and softly entered the darkened room.
The mother, with the narks of weari
ness about her eyes, came from the win
dow where she had been standing and
led the way to the bed.
"He was taken ill last night on his
way back from the theatre," she whis
pered, in a hoarse, strained tone. "I
thought it was nothing but a cold and
and did not call in a . doctor. , But he
grew so much worse in the night that I
had to send for one, and he says it's scar
let fever in it's most malignant form.
He has' been delirious nearly all the time.'
The doctor .did not tell me so, and yet
I'm sure he'll never get well again." She
gave a bitter sob but her eyes were dry
her tears had been exhausted long ago.
"Oh, why doesn't he come, why doesn't
he come?"
She resumed her place by the window,
looking vacantly out at the wild, black
night. Raymond remained by the bed
side and gazed compassionately down at
the small face marked with livid spots.
Near him stood a stand upon which his
fragrant offering and several vials of med
icine were placed. ...
Suddenly the little sufferer opened his
eyes with a faint moan. .For a moment
they rested upon Raymond and then
wearily closed again.
"Dad !" the parched lips formed. x
His mother approached the bed noise
lessly and bent anxiously over him.
"Yes, Dot," she said, soothingly, "ho
will soon be here soon be here. You
won't have long to wait now, darling;"
and looking up at Raymond, she con
tinued, in a choking voice, "he wants to
see his father. I have sent for him, but
but I don't know whether he will
come. He drank and and we parted.
God forgive me, I have been to blame,
too. Oh, do you think that he will
come?"
Raymond looked at his watch. The
time lacked a few minutes of 11.
"Yes, I am sure he will," he said,
pityingly. "He is at the Globe, I think
The performance is scarcely over. No
matter how heavy an actor's grief may
be, he is obliged to disguise it sometimes
and play his part. Yes, he will come,
without doubt."
Slowly the minutes dragged by. Fin
ally a faint knock was heard at the door.
She went and softly opened it. A man
entered on tiptoe.
" Thank heaven, you are here at last?"
she "said.
" I could not come before," he ut
tered hoarsely. "How is he better?"
She mournfully shook her head. He
went, and looked down at his child. His
haggard face told of the violent grief
that was raging in his breast.
Raymond turned to 'go. He deemed
the scene too sacred for his presence.
But the mother grasped him by the arm,
giving him.a wild, imploring look.
"Stay," she said. " He liked you."
While his father stood ' there, the
child opened his eyes and recognized
him.
"Dad!" he cried, stretching forth his
little, hot hand affectionately".
His father caught it, and held it in his
cool palm.
"Yes, my boy," he said, his strong
voice trembling.
" Give me a drink, dad," he whispered,
with difficulty. "Oh, dad," with a
pathetic moan, "I'm all burning up !"
His father moistened his lips with
water. ,
"There, Dot," he said, with forced
cheerfulness. "You feel better now,
don't you? And you're going to , get
well soon. Such good times we'll have
together when you do ! We'll "
The child interrupted him with a faint
Shake of his head.
"No, dad." he said, fixing his big
eyes solemnly upon him, "I won't get
well ; and I want you to promise me
promise me"
"Yes, Dot," he said, with a groan.
"That you won't get get that
wayl"
He looked steadily up. Hia father
bowed his head, too full of anguish to
speak. ,
"That's a good dad," said the child,
fondly. "I knew you would. You
couldn't help it, could you, dad?"
Every word was a stab at the man's
heart. He turned to Raymond. "For
God's sake get a doctor I" he said, broken
ly. "He's dying."
4 'No, no, " interrupted the child, hastily.
"It's too late too late! Where's mam
ma? I can't see. I want her hand."
His mother came and held out her
trembling hand to him. His father gen
tly endeavored to draw her away. '
"No, nol" said Dot, the words coming
in gasps. "I want both both."
He strove with his remaining strength
to join them together. They saw what
he wished to do, and clasped hand3.
A peaceful smile lit up his wan face.
He said no more, and yet they under
stood. Malcolm Douglas, in the Continent.
Taking Shares In a New French Loan.
A Paris correspondent describes the
scene during the night prior to the issue
of shares in the new French loan, when
well-to-do investors and agents hire
persons, who, in turn, hire others yet
poorer to keep places for them until the
hour when the office opens. It was
mot ly and distressing. A poor widow,
with seven children of a tender age, the
joungest about eight, had been standing
there since 10 o'clock. The eight places
would fetch, something like five or six
francs a fortune for a day. A charita
ble soul sent them some hot coffee, some
bread and cold meat, and the look of
delight at the victuals told a heartrend
ing tale of privation.
"A Reliable Tinio-Keeper for $1.50."
"Condemn these city swindles, any
how," exclaimed a young man from
Joliet. "1 don't see what the news
papers print their lying advertisements
for. The other day I saw an announce
ment of 'a reliable time-keeper' for only
$1.50. I sent on my money, and if you'd
guess a week you couldn't hit what it
was they sent me. It wasn't a watch,
nor a clock, nor anything that looked
like either. It was simply a little memo
randum book, ruled off, to keep your
time at work on Any certain job. It had
4Reliable Time Keeper' printed on the
first page, and a few lines of directions
as to how to set down your time. The
whole cursed thing wasn't worth five
cents." Chicago Herald.
'The town collector knows when his
work is dun. Pretzel's Weekly.
California made 880,000 pounds of salt
from sea water in 1883.
THE WONDERS OF CANTON.
QTJEEB SCENES AND rETCXDESTTS XZT
AIT OKIES' TAX CITY.
Streets Densely Packed With Peo
pleThe Fih market A Chinese
Fire Engine. a
A description of 'some of the queer
things to be met with in a Chinese city is
the most interesting part of a Canton let
ter to the Philadelphia Press. Says the
writer: One must take a sedan chair.
Few men who come here on a flying ex
cursion attempt to thread their ' way
through the mazy labyrinth of. Canton
streets on foot, even though they are ac
companied by a guide.
Soon we are being hurried along the
narrow streets, which are densely packed
with people. Our sweating and panting
coolies keep up an incessant yelling to
warn the pedestrians to make a passage
for us; and so dexterous are they and so
obliging are the people on foot, that the
swinging dog-trot is seldom relaxed.
Whenever we meet another chair, how
ever, one party has to stop entirely to
wait for the other to pass by, and even
then the sides of the cars frequently rub
together. The coolies are trained to such
encounters in narrow places, and there
seems to be a tacit recognition as to the
vehicle which shall defer to the other,
which is always according to circum-'
stances. So, also, when we turn a cor
ner, it is frequently difficult to wedge a
chair through, owing to the extreme nar
rowness of the streets.
It is, indeed, a motley crowd that we
meet. There are all types, from the
blind) leprous, deformed and mendi
cant up to the most , aristocratic man
darins. ' v
The common people are the most in:
foresting. There are two things for
which thej can be heartily admired. No
more industrious temperance people are
to be faund anywhere. They have re
duced the cost of living to its actual
minimum, and for the two dollars a
month that it actually requires they 'Will
toil assiduously from morning till night
seven days in the week. Most of those
one meets are busy transporting various
kinds of burdens. These are suspended
from the ends of bamboo poles, which j
are carried over the shoulder. In this
way the most impossible loads are car- 1
ried, ranging all the way from delicate
chinaware up (or down) to live hogs. We
Americans, who have so much difficulty
in carrying a small umbrella in a crowd,
might take a lesson from the heathen
who bobs along so rapidly in a four-foot
street with two two-bushel baskets dang
ling from the ends of a pole.
Here comes the chair of some public
official. Of course we barbarians must
give way before such ah august , person
age, and our chairs are wedged close up
against a wall to allow the procession to
pass.
First, there are a half dozen coolies in
uniform, who go ahead as an escort,
bearing small flags, such a3 American
children would be ashamed to play with.
Then comes the chair, a huge green affair,
through the shutters of whbh we catch
a glimpse of the rather portly form
of the occupant. The chair is borne by
four coolies. Close behind, by one of
the ironies of fate, comes a funeral pro
cession. It is a funeral without a corpse,
however, for it is not practicable to carry
coffins through these narrow streets.
Here is the fish market. The Chinese
always sell their fish alive, and all sizes,
from the tiniest eel up to the most pro
digious of fresh and salt water fishes,
may be seen floundering about in wooden
tubs or stone basins, partially filled with
water. When a customer wants a fish
he selects one to his liking, and it is re
moved from the tank with a dipnet. In
stinctively cruel in every thing, the
Chinese do not stop to kill the fish, but
gouge a pound or two out of his side,
smear the removed portion with blood
from a dripping-pan (all the blood is
saved) and then pass it over to the wait
ing purchaser, after having tied a string
to it. All meat is carried from the mar
ket by means of a string, neither cloth
nor paper being used. I have seen
scores of Chinamen with pieces of meat
thus tied, not more than two inches
square.
A little further on is the fruit district.
This is really a tempting quarter. There
are all kinds of strange-looking fruits
and nuts, the names of which one de
spairs of learning. At this season of the
year oranges, bananas, Qhinese pears,
cocoanuts and pineapples are the staple
fruits. Among the nuts the lychee stands
prominent.
But what is all this excited yelling
about? People are rushing into the open
store fronts on either side of the street,
and our coolies hurry to the nearest cross
street, up which they turn as if to allow
something to pass. It proves to be a fire
engine going to a conflagration in the
suburbs. It looks like a puny machine,
propeled by a rope full of coolies, and is
just as large as the width of the street
will permit, too large to be drawn through
some streets. It is, of pourse, a hand
engine, and throws a tiny stream about
a quarter of an inch in diameter. There
is a short hose, which is dropped into &
neighboring well or cistern, if there is
not a canal handy to the scene of the fire.
The clumsy contrivance is hauled at full
6peed along the street, making a terrific,
rumbling noise as it bounces over the
uneven granite slabs with which the
street is paved. The men in front keep
up an incessant howling to warn pedes
trians and bearers of burdens to clear the
entire width of the street. Back of this
apparatus came a band of men armed
with pikes, and awkward wooden buck
ets; while back of them again are a
dozen soldiers bearing tridents.
Passing by the silk-weaving district,
where these beautiful Canton fabrics are
being manufactured. at the rate of half a
yard a day, one sees a woman looking on,
with her "arms akimbo and a palm-leaf
fan tied to her head-for a hat. In the
temple of LongerttyJ there is a fat and"
jolly idol, equipped with six hands, re
clining on his side, with his mouth dis
tended. This seems to be quite consist
ent with the theory that laughter is con
ducive at once to corpulency and length
of days. All sorts- of heathen worship
are going on in these temples, that in the
Buddhist temples being the most impos
ing. The processions of .richly clad
priests contrast sharply with the rugged
raiment of most of the worshipers. At
one place people are kowtowing and burn
ing sandal-wood joss-stick's before three
sitting images, representing the past,
present and future. You will notice that,
the greater part of the people are con
cerned as to the future.
, The flower pagoda is one of the pleas
antest of the monuments of Canton. It
has recently been repaired, and i3 now a
full nine-story structure of graceful out
line, prettily painted with various colors.
If you ask why it is called the "flower
pagoda," while th$re appear to be no
flowers connected with it, you must
know that "flower" is mainly a rhetorical
term with the Chinese, simply implying
that which is very nice. Thus in the
phrases "Flower kingdom" and "Flower
beat," its use is purely figurative.
, Tapestries of Money Princes.'
The New York Dial says that the rich
stuffs which are now used for hangings
and upholstery are of amazing variety
and costliness, some of them being worth
nearly their weight in gold. Many
rooms are covered with rich brocades
and tapestries in place of wall papers,
and embossed leather in most artistic de
signs is also used. The cost of tapestry,
that is, the genuine article, places it be
yond the reach of all but millionaires.
There are in America but four specimens
of the genuine Gobelin tapestry, pieces
of which may have taken years to weave,
and whose patterns have never been re
peated. Mr. William II. Vanderbilt
owns one of this number, another is in
the West, and two are . in the possession
of an uptown firm who deal in artistic
furniture. I
There are, however, many tapestries of
elegance which are used, though nothing
to compare to the great value of the
Gobelin. A magnificent dining-room in
a private residence in New York is com
pletely hung with rare and antique de
signs in tapestry. The chairs for the
dining-rooms are covered with stuffs
which match the hangings from the
room itself. The chairs in more common
use for a breakfast-room, which many
houses have beside the dining-room, are
more serviceably covered in leather of a
handsome pattern.
Some of these brocades are sold as
high as $35 and $45 per day. ( Such ma
terial is used both for portieres and for
covering furniture.
It is not always the case that whole
suits of furniture are cqvered with these
very rich stuffs; they are much more fre
quently used for small reception chairs.
Dining-room tables of massive design
have superceded those oval or round in
shape. The lady who sits at the head of
the table has in the case of a round table
the least accommodations. But if the
table be square there is room for the many
pieces of service which she must use, and.
there is no crowding, thus giving a more
desirable effect. .
The upholstery of the sleeping-room or
boudoir gives also the greatest scope for
the artist. Some bedroom sets of the
Renaissance period are made of ebonized
wood richly carved, and the price, S
single set would buy some people a homu. '
A bedspread rich in design was made of
a heavy silk beautifully embroidered, the
center of which was covered with point
applique, which was worth in itself nearly
$1,000. Elaborate window curtains of
this same lace cost a fortune.
The hall presents another field for dec
oration, and those large settles copied
from Flemish designs, pieces of armor
and tapestries of Teniers design produce
a combination that is at once striking and
artistic. '
General Hampton's Prisoner.
Mr. James R. Randall sends the follow
ing story from Washington to the Augus
ta (Ga.) Chronicle: 4 4A middle-aged man
approached Senator Hampton the other
day and asked his influence in pressing a
claim before the military committee of
the Senate. The stranger then said:
'General, I am glad to see you again.
You do not recognize me, but you per
sonally made a prisoner of me during the
war.' Comparing notes, Hampton found
out that it was a fact, and recalled the
circumstances. He was reconnoitering
one night and missed his way. Around
him burned many more camp fires than
he had left behind him. Entering a house
he discovered that he had strayed into
the enemy's lines. A few soldiers were
seated at a table and abruptly addressing
them as if a superior efficer. of
their own army, he asked who they were
and what thev were doing there. Ona
man spoke up and replied; 4 Wo belong
to the Eighth New York regiment, and
General Warren sent us to get- milk.
Hampton felt that all of his nerve and ad
dress would be required to extricate him
self from his dangerous position. He
reached for his pistol, held it along his
thigh, and, on leaving the house, com
manded the man who had spoken to him
to follow. He did so. Hampton mounted
his horse and called the man to him.
Bending down to the Federal soldier's ear,
he whispered : I have a pistol aimed at
your head and will shoot you if any
alarm is made. The surprised soldier
whispered: 4Don't shoot, I surrender.'
Hampton then bade him move on just
ahead of his horse, and so brought him
into the Confederate camp. It was this
man who, after more than twenty years,
met his captor and asked a favor of him,
as a Senator, that he was more than wil
ling to grant." '
Tho London pol'c ? are" to be furnished
with whistles, instead of the old-f ashiont d
rattles. ,