EVILS OF THE NIGHT
Dr. Talmage Points a Warning to
the Unwary.
The Well-Known Prenelier Describe*
Some of the Scenes Tlint May He
Witnessed After Dark—Time
of Greut Temptation.
[Copyright, 1901, by Louis Klopsch, N. Y.]
Washington, Oct. 13.
In this discourse Dr. Talmage de
scribes some of the scenes to be wit
nessed late at night in the great cit
ies and warns the unwary of many
perils; text, Isaiah 21,11: “Watchman,
what of the night?”
When night came down on Babylon,
Nineveh and Jerusalem they needed
careful watching; otherwise the incen
diary’s torch might have been thrust
into the very heart of the metropolitan
splendor, or enemies, marching from
the hills, might have forced the gates.
All night long, on top of the wall and
in front of the gates, might be heard
the measured step of the watchman on
his solitary beat. Silence hung in air,
save as some passerby raised the ques
tion: “Watchman, what of the night?”
It is to me a deeply suggestive and
solemn thing to see a man standing
guard by night. It thrilled through
me as at the gate of an arsenal in
Charleston the question once smote
me: “Who comes there?” followed by
the sharp command: “Advance and
give the countersign.” Every moral
teacher stands on picket or patrols
the wall as watchman. His work is to
sound the alarm, and, whether it be in
the first watch, the second watch, in
the third watch or in the fourth watch,
to be vigilant until the daybrhak flings
its “morning glories” of blooming
cloud across the trellis of the day.
The ancients divided their night
into four parts—the first watch, from
6 to 9; the second, from 9 to 12; the
third, from 12 to 3, and the fourth,
from 3 to 6. I speak now of the city
in the third watch, from 12 to 3 o’clock.
I never weary of looking upon the
life of the city in the first watch. That
is the hour when the stores are clos
ing. The laboring men, having quitted
the scaffolding and the shop, are on
their way home. It rejoices me to
give them my seat in the city car. They
have stood and hammered away all
day. Their feet are weary. They are
exhausted with the tug of work. They
are mostly cheerful. With appetites
sharpened on the swift turner’s wheel
and the carpenter's whetstone they
6eek the evening meal. The clerks,
too, have broken away from the coun
ter and with brain weary of the long
line of figures and the whims of those
who go a-shopping, seek the face of
mother or wife or child. The streets
are thronged with young men setting
out from the great centers of bargain
making. Let idlers clear the street
and give right of way to the besweated
artisans and merchants! They have
p earned their bread and are now on
their way to get it. The lights in full
jet hang over 10,000 evening repasts—
the parents at either end of the table,
the children between. Thank God,
“who setteth the solitary in families.”
A few hours later and all the places
of amusement, good and bad, are in
full tide. Lovers of art, catalogue in
hand, stroll through the galleries and
discuss the pictures. The ballroom is
. resplendent with the rich apparel of
those who, on either side of the white,
glistening-boards, await the signal from
the orchestra. Concert halls are lift
ed into enchantment with the warble
of one songstress or swept out on a
sea of tumultuous feeling by the blast
of brazen instruments. Drawing
rooms are filled with all the graceful
ness of apparel, with all sweetness of
sound, with all splendor of manner;
mirrors are catching up and multi
plying the scene, until it seems as if
in infinite corridors there were gar
landed troops advancing and retreat
ing. The outdoor air rings with laugh
ter and with the moving to and fro of
thousands on the great promenades.
The dashing span, adrip with the foam
of the long country ride, rushes past
as you halt at the curbstone. Mirth,
revelry, beauty, fashion, magnificence,
mingle in the great metropolitan pic
ture until the thinking man goes home
to think more seriously, and the pray
ing man to pray more earnestly. A
beautiful and overwhelming thing is
the city in the first and second watches
of the night.
But the clock strikes 12, and the
third watch has begun. The thunder
of the city has rolled out of the air.
The slightest sounds cut the night with
such distinctness as to attract your at
tention. The tinkling of the bell of
the street car in the distance and the
baying of the dog. The stamp of a
horse in the next street. The slamming
of a saloon door. The hiccough of the
drunkard. The shrieks of the steam
whistle five miles away. Oh, how sug
gestive, my friends, the third watch of
the night!
There are honest men passing up
and down the street. Here is a city
missionary who has been carrying a
scuttle of coal to that poor family in
that dark place. Here is an under
taker going up the steps of a building
from which there comes a bitter cry,
which indicates that the destroying
angel has smitten the first-born. Here
is a minister of religion who has been
giving the sacrament to a dying Chris
tian. Here is a physician passing along
in great haste. Nearly all the lights
have gone out in the dwellings, for it
is the third watch of the night. That
light in the window is the light of the
watcher, for the medicines must be
administered, and the fever must be
watched, and the restless tossing off
of the coverlid must be resisted, and
the ice must be kept on the hot tem
ples, and the perpetual prayer must
go up from hearts soon to be broken.
Oh, the third watch of the night!
What a stupendous thought—a whole
city at rest! Weary arm preparing for
to-morrow’s toil. Hot brain being
cooled off. lligid muscles relaxed. Ex
cited nerves soothed. The white hair
of the octogenarian in thiu drifts
across the pillow, fresh fall of flakes
on snow already fallen. Childhood,
with its dimpled hands thrown out on
the pillow, and with every breath tak
ing in a new store of fun and frolic.
Third watch of the night! God’s slum
berless eye will look. Let one great
wave of refreshing slumber roll over
the heart of the great town, submerg
ing care and anxiety and worriment
and pain. Let the city sleep.
But, my friends, be not deceived.
There wfill be to-night thousands who
will not sleep at all. Go up that dark
alley, and be cautious where you
tread lest you fall over the pros
trate form of a drunkard lying on his
own doorstep. Look about you, lest
you feel the garroter’s hug. Look
through the broken window pane,
and see what you can see. You say:
“Nothing.” Then listen. What is
it? “God help us!” No footlights,
but tragedy ghastlier and mightier
than ltistori or Edwin Booth ever en
acted. No light, no fire, no bread,
no hope. Shivering in the cold, they
have had no food for 24 hours. You
say: “Why don’t they beg?” They
do, but they get nothing. You say:
“Why don’t they deliver themselves
over to the almshouse?” Ah, you
would not ask that if you ever heard
the bitter cry of a man or child when
told he must go to the almshouse!
“Oh,” y-ou say, “they are vicious poor,
and therefore they do not deserve our
sympathy.” Are they vicious? So
much more they need your pity. The
Christian poor, God helps them.
Through their night there twinkles
the round, merry star of hope and
through the broken window they see
the crystals of Heaven, but the
vicious poor, they are more to be
pitied. Their last light has gone out.
You excuse yourself from helping
them byr saying they are so bad they
brought this trouble on themselves.
I reply: Where I give ten prayers
for the innocent who are suffering I
will give 20 for the guilty who are
suffering.
Pass on through the alley. Open
the door. “Oh,” you say, “it is
locked.” No, it is not locked. It has
never been locked. No burglar would
be tempted to go in there to steal
anything. The door is never locked.
Only a broken chair stands against
the door. Shove it back. Go in.
Strike a match. Now, look. Beastli
ness and rags. See those glaring
eyeballs. Be careful now what you
say. Do not utter any insult, do not
utter any suspicion, if you value your
life. What is that red mark on the
wall? It is the mark of a murderer’s
hand! Look at those two eyes rising
up out of the darkness and out front
the straw in the corner, coming to
ward y'ou, and as they' come near you
your lights go out. Strike another
match. Ah, this is a babe, not like
those beautiful children presented
in baptism. This little one never
smiled; it never will smile. A flower
flung on an awfully barren beach.
O Heavenly Shepherd, fold that little
one in thy arms!
Strike another match. Ah, is it
possible that the scarred and bruised
face of that young woman was ever
looked into by maternal tenderness?
Utter no scorn. Utter no harsh word.
No ray of hope has dawned on that
brow for many a year. No ray of
hope ever will dawn on that brow.
But the light has gone out. Do not
strike another light. It would be a
mockery to kindle another light in
such a place as that. Pass out and
pass down the street. Our cities are
full of such homes, and the worst
time the third wafch of the night.
My friends, you see all around about
you the need that something radical be
done. You do not see the wdrst. In
the midnight meetings in London a
great multitude has been saved. We
want a few hundred Christian men and
women to come down from the highest
circles of society to toil amid these
wandering and destitute ones and kin
dle up a light in the dark alley, even
the gladness of Heaven. Do not go
wrapped in your fine furs and from
your well-filled tables with the idea
that pious "talk is going to stop the
gnawing of an empty stomach or to
warm stockingless feet. Take bread,
take raiment, take medicine, as well as
take prayer. There is a great deal of
common sense in what the poor wom
an said to the city missionary when he
was telling her how she ought to love
God and serve Him. “Oh,” she said, “if
you were as poor and cold as I am and
as hungry' you could think of noth
ing else.”
I could give you the history in a min
ute of one of the best friends I ever
had. Outside of my ow n family I never
had a better friend. He welcomed me
to my home at the west. He was of
splendid personal appearance, but he
had an ardor of soul and a warmth of
affection that made me love him like
a brother. I saw men coming out of
the saloons and gambling hells, and
they surrounded my friend, and they
took him at the weak point—his social
nature—and I saw him going down,
and I had a fair talk with him, for 1
never yet saw a man you could not
talk with on the subject of his habits
if you talked with him in the right
way. I said to him: “Why don’t you
give up your bad habits and become
a Christian?” I remember now just
how he looked, leaning over his coun
ter, as he replied: “I wish I could. Oh.
sir, I should like to be a Christian, but
I have gone so far astray I can’t get
back!” So the time went on. After
awhile the day of sickness came. I
was summoned to his sickbed. I has
tened. It took but a few moments to
get there. I was surprised as I went
an. I saw him in his ordinary dress,
fully dressed, lying on top of the bed.
1 gave him my hand, and he seized it
convulsively, and said: “Oh, how glad
I am to see you! Sit down there.”
I sat down, and he said: “Mr.Talmage,
just where you sit now my mother sat
last night. She has been dead 20 years.
Now, I don’t want you to think I am
out of my mind or that I am supersti
tious; but, sir, she sat there last night,
and she said: ‘Roswell, I wish you
would do better—I wish you would
do better. ‘I said: ‘Mother, I wish I
could do betetr; I try to do better, but
I can’t. Mother, you used to help me.
Why can’t you help me now?’ And, sir,
I got out of bed, for it was a reality,
and I went to her and threw my arms
around her neck, and I said: ‘Mother,
I will do better, but you must help. I
can’t do this alone.’ ” I knelt and
prayed. That night his soul went to
the Lord who made it.
Arrangements were made for the
obsequies. The question was raised
whether they should bring him to the
church. Somebody said: “You cannot
bring such a dissolute man as that into
the church.” I said: “You will bring
him in church; he stood by me when
he was alive, and I will stand by him
when he is dead. Bring him.” As I
stood in the pulpit and saw them car
rying the body up the aisle I felt as if
I could weep tears of blood. On one
side of the pulpit sat his little child of
eight years, a sweet, beautiful little
girl, that I had seen him hug convul
sively in his better moments. He put
on her all jewels and gave her all pic
tures and toys, and then he would go
away, as if hounded by an evil spirit,
to his cups and the house of iniquity—
a fool to the correction of the stocks.
She looked up wonderingly. She knew
not what it meant. She was not old
enough to understand the sorrow of
an orphan. On the other side sat the
men who had ruined him; they were
the men who had poured the worm
wood into the orphan’s cup; they were
the men who had bound him hand and
foot. I knew them. How did they
seem to feel? Did they weep? No.
Did they say: t “What a pity that so
generous a man should be destroj'ed?”
No. Did they sigh repentingly over
what they had done? No. They sat
there, looking as vultures look at the
carcass of a lamb whose heart they
have ripped out. So they sat and
looked at the coffin lid, and I told them
the judgment of God upon those who
had destroyed their fellow. Did they
reform? I was told they were ija the
places of iniquity that night after my
friend was laid in Oakwood cemetery,
and they blasphemed and they drank.
Oh, how merciless men are, especially
after they have destroyed you! Do
not look to men for comfort or help.
But there is a man who will not re
form. He says: “I won’t reform.”
Well, then, how many acts are there
in a tragedy? I believe there are five
acts in a tragedy.
Act the first of the tragedy: A
young man starting off from home;
parents and sisters weeping to have
him go; wmgon rising over the hill;
farewell kiss flung back. Ring the bell,
and let the curtain fall.
Act the second: The marriage altar;
full organ; bright lights; long white
veil trailing through the aisle; prayer
and congratulations and exclamation
of “How well she looks!”
Act the third: A woman waiting
for staggering steps; old garments
stuck into the broken window pane;
marks of hardship on the face; the
biting of the nails of bloodless fingers;
neglect and cruelty and despair. Ring
the bell, and let the curtain drop.
Act the fourth: Three graves in a
dark place—grave of the child that
died for lack of medicine, grave of the
wife that died of a broken heart, grave
of the man that died of dissipation. Oh,
what a blasted heath with three
graves! Plenty of weeds, but no flow
ers. Ring the bell, and let the curtain
drop.
Act the fifth: A destroyed soul’s
eternity; no light, no music; blackness
of darkness forever. But I cannot
look any longer. Woe, woe! I close
my eyes to this last act of the trag
edy. Quick, quick! Ring the bell, and
let the curtain drop. “Rejoice. O young
man, in thy youth, and let thy heart re
joice in the days of thy youth, but
know thou that for all these things God
will bring you into judgment.” “There
is a way that seemeth right to a ma>^
but the end thereof is death.”
PUNGENT PARAGRAPHS.
Sometimes a man’s appearance suits
a woman, and there are times when his
disappearance Would please her more.
—Chicago Daily News.
“How did that railway magnate's
daughter happen to accept Jim Booz
leby Buffer?” “1 think it’s because he
runs his name in three sections.”—
Cleveland Plain Dealer.
Mrs. Ilenpekt (scornfully)—“I don’t
intend to live with you any longer. J
shall get a divorce.” Henpekt (humb
ly)—“I wish, my dear, you would get
me one, too.”—Town Topics.
Prospective Editor—“I am going to
call my new paper ‘The Blood.’ ” Oth
er Fellow—“Why?” Prospective Edi
tor—“So it will start right off with a
good circulation.”—Baltimore Ameri
can.
“Excuse me for bothering you, sir,
but I would like to borrow a dollar.”
“I can’t lend you a dollar, my friend,
but I thank you all the same for your
faith in my financial standing.”—Rich
mond Dispatch.
“Are you sure there will be no hitch
in our elopement?” anxiously asked
the beautiful maid. “How could there
be a hitch,” assured the ardent lover,
“when we are going in an automobile?”
—Spokane Chronicle.
“Why is it, now that he is sick and
needs sympathy, none of the neighbors
will call?” “For a very sufficient rea
son. He used to get up early every
morning and open the shutters with
a bang.”—Indianapolis News.
The Present Pace.—Servant—“A
publisher at the door to see you, sir.”
Modern Author—“Have him come in
and wait; tell him I just began writing
a book and won’t have it finished for
15 minutes.”—Ohio State Journal.
Philosophic.—“Poor bye!” exclaimed
O'Hara, condoling with Cassidy, who
had been injured by a blast. “ ’Tis
tough luck teh hev yer hand blowed
off.” “Och! Faith, it moight ’ave bin
wurse,” replied Cassidy. “Suppose
Oi'd had me week’s wages in it at the
toime.”—Philadelphia Press.
A MARRIAGE RECORD.
Inxtnnce at Time of Alexander the
Great When Over 10,000 Couples
Were Wedded.
The greatest mass wedding on rec
ord from gray antiquity to the pres
ent day took place at the time of Alex
ander the Great. Ten thousand one
hundred and one men were married to
10,101 women at one time on that
memorable occasion. It was after the
conquest of Persia that Alexander, be
lieving intermarriage between the vic
tors and the vanquished to be the best
method of securing his supremacy in
the conquered country, decreed that
100 of his chief officers and 10,000 of
his Greek soldiers should be married
at the same time with a corresponding
number of Persian women. The mass
wedding was celebrated on a plain
near the city of Susa.
A vast pavilion was erected in which
Alexander the Great himself was to
marry Statira, the beautiful daughter
of Darius. It was hung with rich tis
sues and adorned with gold and pre
cious stones. Adjoining the pavilion
were gorgeous quarters for the hun
dred officers, and in an inclosed court
seats were prepared for the 10,000 sol
dier bridegrooms and their prospec
tive brides. The ceremony was ex
ceedingly simple. After all the
grooms and brides were assembled
and in their proper places Alexander
offered a libation to the gods and then
kissed Statira as his wife. His exam
ple was imitated by all the other
grooms with their respective brides,
and after the ceremony was thus com
pleted the great wedding feast was
spread for the thousands.
They Knew Hiiu.
“Here’s another story about ‘the
oldest inhabitant,’ ” he remarked,
looking up from his paper.
“Who is he?” she asked, although
without displaying much interest.
“I know,” broke in the bright little
girl.
“So do I,” asserted the smart little
boy.
“You know who the oldest inhabit
ant is,” repeated the father in sur
prise. “Well, who is it, Ethel?”
“It’s the man who dies so often,”
answered the bright little girl.
“You’re always reading about him in
the paper.”
“Huh!” ejaculated the smart little
boy, scornfully, “I guess you don’t
know what you’re talking about. It’s
the fellow that’s always remembering
about cold winters and hot summers
when the weather’s bad.”—Chicago
Post.
OnKbonspwonit.
Prudent Mamma—Ethel, I want you
to treat young Mr. Thigsetwith a lit
tle more consideration. He is well-to
do and of the highest respectability. I
know, of course, he's a bit fleshy, but—•
Girl in the Pink Shirtwaist—
Fleshy, mamma? He’s—he’s stom
achy!—Chicago Tribune.
A Mean Man.
“Please look pleasant,” remarked
the photographer.
Snap went the camera.
“And now, ma’am,” he continued,
“you may assume your natural ex
pression.”—Stray Stories.
Neglected His Opportunities.
“So you were struck by lightning?’*
queried the Willoughby street lawyer of
the cripple asking for alms.
“I was, sir.”
“How did it happen?” ’
“I was walking along the Jamaica road
when a storm came up and I got under a
tree. A bolt struck the tree and hurt
me as you see.”
“And what have you ever done about
it?”
“Why, nothing, sir. WThat could I do?”
“Do? Do? Why, you could have found
out who the tree belonged to and scared
him out of $50 by threatening a damage
suit for $10,000. Here’s a nickel for you,
but you don’t seem to be a man of much
energy.”—Brooklyn Citizen.
America Leads.
In consequence of the great demand for
cotton goods, the United States consumed
more raw cotton than Great Britain, which
has always held supremacy in this in
dustry, just as Hos’tetter’s Stomach Bitters
has been the best family medicine, and which
has retained its prestige for over fifty years.
To-day the Bitters is used in almost every
home. It cures dyspepsia, indigestion, con
stipation and biliousness, also purifies the
blood, calms the nerves, and builds up the
entire system.
The Real Thing.
“Uncle Tom, what is charity?”
“Charity, Tommy, is finding good ex
cuses for the fault* oi people w® don’t like.”
—Detroit Free Press.
Wrenched Foot and Ankle Cured bjr
St. Jacobs Oil.
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a remedy is invaluable, and I shall lose no
opportunity of suggesting the use of St.
Jacobs Oil. Yours truly, Henry J. Doirs,
Manager The Cycles Co., London, England.
St. Jacobs Oil is safe, sure and never fail
ing. Conquers Pain.
Imperative.
Jaggles—Why do they start the organ as
soon as the sermon is over?
Waggles—Why, to wake up the congrega
tion.—Judge.
To Care a Cold In One Day
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The man who has a character that mud
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Brown.
Actors, Vocalists, Public Speakers praise
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Pike’s Toothache Drops Cure in one minute.
What literature needs is a man who can
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Bad lives am like pipestems—hollow, foul
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PUTNAM FADELESS DYES are eas
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A man must be greater than his work.—«
Ram’s Horn.
Piso’s Cure cannot be too highly spoken of
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