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About The Montgomery monitor. (Mt. Vernon, Montgomery County, Ga.) 1886-current | View Entire Issue (Jan. 5, 1887)
©he Jttonfgmnerj) monitor. D. C, SUTTON, Editor and Proprietor. REV. lU>. TAIJLVdK. THE BROOICBYN DIVINE’S SUN DAY' SERMON. Subject of Discourse: “On Trial. ’ Text: “We hare an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous." l —/ John ii., l. Standing in a court-room you say to your self: “At this bar crime has often been ar raigned; at this witness stand the oath has oltau been taken: at this jurors' bench tiie verdict has been rendered; at this judge s desk sentence has been pronounced.’' Bu I have to tell you to-day of a trial higher than any Oyer and Terminer or Circuit or Su preme or Chancery. It is the trial of every Christian man for the life of his soul. This trial is different from any other in the fa t that it is both civil and criminal. The is-ues at stake are tremendous, and I shall iu rny sermon show you, first, what are the grounds of complaint; then, who are the witnesses iu the cause, and lastly, who are the advo ate-. When a trial is called on, the first thing is to have the, indictment read. Stand up tlien, o Christ-an men, and hear the indictment of the court of high heaven against thy soul. It is an indictment of ten counts, for thou has directly or indirectly broken ail the ten Commandments. You know low it thun dered on Sinai, anil when God came down how the mountain.rocked and the smoko as cended as from a smouldering furnace and the darkness gathered thick aud the loud deep trumpet utt red the words: “The soul that siaueth, it shall die!” Are you guilty or not guilty: Do not put in a negative plea too quick, for l have to announce that “all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. There is none that doeth good; no, not one. t\ hosoever shall keep the whole law, yet of fend in one point, he is guilty of all ’ Do net, therefore, he too hasty in pronouncing yourself not guilty. This lawsuit before us also charges you with the breaking of a solemn contra t. Many a tune did wj promise to bu the Lord’s. We got down on our knees and said: “O Lord, 1 am thine now and forever.’’ Did you keop the promise? Have you stood up to the contract? 1 go back ta your first communion. You remember it as woll as if it were yesterday. You know how the vis ion of the cross rose before you. You re member how from the head aud the han .s and the side and the feet, there came bleed ing forth these two words: “Komember Me.” You recall how the cup of ccmmunion trembled in your hand when you first took it; and a< in a s a-sheli you may hear, or think y..u hear, the roariug of the surf oven after the shell has been taken from the beach, so you lifted the cup of communion and you heard in it the surging of the great o< ean of a Saviour s agony': and you came forth from that communion service with lace shining as though you had been ou the Mount of Trans figuration : and the very air seemol tremu lous with the love of Jesus, aud the woods and the leaves and the giass and the birds were brighter and s woe ter-voiced than ever before, «nd you said down in the very depths of your soul: “Lord, Thou knowest all things; Tiiou knowest that i love Thee.” Have you kept the bargain, O Christian man? Have you not sometimes faltered when you ought to have been true? Have you not been proud when j'ou ought to have been humble.' Have you not played the coward when you ought to have been thy hero? I charge it upon you and 1 charge it upon my self —we have broken the contract. Still further; this law suit claims damages at your hands. The greats t -lan Ser ou the Christian religion is au inconsistent profes sor. The Bible says religion is one thing; we by our incousis ency say religion is some other thing, and what is more deplorablo about it is that people can see faults of others while they canuot see auy iu thennelves. If youshail at any time find some miierabloold gossip, with imperfection : from the crown of her head to the sole of iter foot, a perfect blotch of sin herself, she will go tattling, tat tling, tattling ail the yeai-s of her life ab ut the inconsistencies of others, having no idea that she is inconsistent herself. God save the world from the gossip, female and male. I think the males are the worst! Bow the chariot of Christ’s salvation goes on through the world; but it is our inconsistencies, my brethren, that block up the wheels, while all along the line there ought to have been cast nothing but palm branches, and the shout should have been lifted: “Hosanna to the son of David.” Now you have heard the indictment read. ! Are you ready to plead guilty or not guilty ! Perhaps you are not ready yet to plead. Then the trial will go on. The wit nesses will bo called and we shall have the I matter decided. In the name of God I now make proclamation. Oyez! (lycz! Oyoz! Whosoever hath anything to offer in this trial, in which God is the plaintiff and the Christian soul the defendont, let him now step forth and give testimony in this solemn trial. The first witness that I call upon the stand j in behalf of the prosecution is the world-all criti al and observantof Christian character. You know that there are people around you j who perpetually banquet on the frailties of ! God’s ch i Iren. You may know, if you have lived in the country, that a crow cares for j nothing so much as carrion. There are those j who imagine that out of the faults of ( hris- j tiaus they cau make a bridge of boats across I the stream of death, aud they are g dug to try it: but, a’as, for the mistake! When they get amid stream away will go the bridge, and down will go their souls to per dition. O world of the greedy eye and the hard heart, coino on the stand now and testify in behalf of tbo prosecution against this Christian soul on trial. What do you know about this Christian man? “Oh,” says the world, “I know a great deal about him. He talks about i u’ting ins treas ures in heaven, but he is the sharpest man in j a trade I ever knew. He seems to want ns to ! believe that ho is a child of G si, but he is just full of imperfections. Ido not know but I am a great deal better thin he is now. | Oftentimes hi is very earthly,and he talk- so ■ little about Christ and so much about him- j self. lam very g!a Ito testify that this is a | bad man.” Stop, O World wrth the greedy eye and 1 her 1 heart. I fear you are too "much inter ests 1 in this trial to give jnr artial evidence. Let all those who hear trie testimony of tli s witness know that there is an old family quarrel between these two parties. Th -re al wav's has i een a variance between the j world and the church aud while the world an the witness '-tand to-dav has told a great deal of truth about this Christian man, you must take it all with some allowance, re membering that they still keip the ol 1 grudge good. O World of the greedy eye and the hard heart. < hat will do. Y'ou may Sit down. _ . The second witness I call in this case is Conscien"e. Who art thon, O Cons-ien'-e? What i - vour business ' Where were von born ? What are von doing here “Ob,” savs Conscience. “I was bom in heaven: I came down to befriend this man: I have lived w:th him. I have instructed him. I have warned him. I shove l him th • right and the wrong, ad using him to take the one and «sc-bew the - ther: I have kindiel a great light in hi- soul. with a whip of scorpions! have scon-gel his wickedness and i have tried t< <•: eer him when rieenp j right: an 1 yet I am compelled t'. * testify on the stand to-day that be has MT. VERNON. MONTGOMERY CO.. GA.. WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 5. 1887. Sometimes reiectod my mission. Oh. how many cups of life havo I p-essed to his lies that he dashed down, and how often ha-, he stood with his hard heel on the bleo ling heart of the Son of God! It pains mo very Wmh that t have to testify against this < "nristian man. and yet 1 must, in behalf of Hint who will in no wise ‘dearthe guilty, snv • that tips Christian man has done wrong. He has been wc.rlllv. Ho has been neglectful. He Ims done a then and things he ought not to have done nnd left undone a thousand things he ought to have done.” That will do, Conscience. You cau sit down. The third witness I call in the case is an angel of Got Bright and shining one. what div'st thou here? What hast thou to -ay against this man ou trial? “Oh,” sava the att. cl. “1 have been a messenger to him and have gunrde 1 him I have watched him. With this wing I defended him. and often times when he knew it not 1 led him into the green pastures an i beside the still waters. I snatched from him the poisoned chal ices. When bail spirits came upon hint to destroy him, I fought them bn k with infinite fierceness; nnd yet 1 have to tcstifv to-day that ho has rejected my mission. He lias not done as he ought to have done. Though I came from the sky lie drove me back. Though with this wing I defended him and though with this voice I wooed him, I have to announce his multi plied imperfections. I dare iot keen back the testimony, for then I should not dare to aopear again among the sinless ones before the great white throne.” There is only ono more witness to be called on behalf of t iie nrosc ait : ori and that is the great,, the holy, the august th > omnipotent Spirit of God. We bow down before him. ilolv Spirit, knowest thou this man' “Oil, ves,” says the Holy Ono, “I know him. I have striven with him ten thousand times and though sometimes he did seem to repent, he fell back again as often from his first, es tate. Ten thousand times ten thousand has he grieve 1 mo. although the Bible warned him. saying: ‘Grieve not the Holy Ghost. Oueneh not the Spirit.’ Yes, lie has driven me back. Though T am the Third Person of the Trinity, lie has trampled on my mission, and the blood of the atonement that 1 brought with which to cleanse his soul, lie sometimes despised. I catne from the throne of God to convert, nnd comfort and sanctity, and yet look at that man nnd see what ho is compared with what, unresi-ted, 1 would have made llim.” Theeviden e on the part of the .prosecu tion has closed. Now let the defence bring ou the rebuttal testimony. What have you, OChristian soul,to bring in reply to this evi dence of the world, of the conscience, of the nngel and of the Holy Ghost? No evi dence? Are all the o things true! “Yes. Ln lean, unclean,” says every Christian soul. What.' Do you not i ogin to tremble at the thought of eon lemnation? We ha: e come n uvti tli - most interesting part of this great trial. Tiie evidence ail in, the advo at -: speak. The profession of an advocate is full of res on ability. In Eng land and the United St.tes there have arisen men who in this calling have been honored by their race and thrown contempt upon those who iu the proses-ion have been guilty of n great many meannesses. That profession will be honorable as long ns it has attached to it such names as Mansfit Id and Marshall, nnd Story, and Kent and Southard, and William Wirt. The court-room has so nr. times been the scene of very marvellous nad tliriling things. Some of you remember the famous Girard will case, where ono of our advocates plea led the cause of the Bible and Christianity in masterly Anglo-Saxon, every paragraph a thunderbolt. Some of you havo read of the famous trial in Westminster Hall, of Warren Hastings, the despoilerof India. That great man had conquered India by splendid talents, by courage, by bribes, by gigantic dishonesty. The whole world had rung with applause or condemnation. Gathered in Westminster Hall, a place in which thirty Kings had been inaugurated, was one of the most famous audiences ever gathered. Foreign Ministers aud Princes sat there. I’eers marched in clad in ermine an 1 gold. Mighty men and women from all lands looked down upon the scene. Amid all that pomp and splendor, nnd amid an excitement such as has seldom been seen in any court room, Edmund Burke advanced in a speech which will lust as long as the English language, concluding with this burning charge which made Warren Hastings cringe and cower: “1 impeach him in the name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose trust h i has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honor he has sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he lias trampled ou. and whose country lie has turned into a desert. And, lastly, in the name of human nature, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age and rank, I impeach him as tho common enemy and op pessor of all.” Rut 1 turn from the recital of those inem orable’occasions to a grander trial and I have to tell you that in this triai of the Christian for the life of his soul the advocates are mightier, wiser and more eloquent. The evi dence all being in, Justice rises in behalf of the prosecution to make his plea. With the Bible open in his hand, he reads the law, stern and inflexible, and the penalty: “The soul that sinneth, it shall die.” Then he says: “O, thou Judge and lawgiver, this is Thine ovt n statute and all the evidence in earth and heaven agrees in stating that this man has sinned against all these enactments. Now let the sword leap from its scabbard. Shall a man go through the very flames of Sinai unsinged? Let the law be executed. Let judgment be pronounced. Let him die. 1 demand that he die.” O Christian, does it not look very dark for thee? Who will plead on thy sido in so for- 1 lorn a cause? Sometimes a man will be brought into a court of law and lie will have no friends and no money, and the judge will look over the bar and say: “Is there anv one who will volunteer to take this man’s rase and defend him <” and some young man rises up and says: “I will be his coon el:” perhaps starting on from that very point to ,a great and brilliant career; Now, in this matter of the soul, as you have nothing to pay for connsel, do you think that any one will volunteer' Yes, ye:; I see One rising, lie.is a young man, only thirty-three years of age. I see His countenance suffused with tears and covered with blood, and all the galleries of heaven are thrilled with the spectacle. Thanks he unto God. “we have an advo-ate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. ” () Christian soul, your case begins to look better. I think perhaps after all you may not have to di The best advocate in all the universe has taken your side. No one «as ever so qualified to defend a rnan as this ad vocate is qualified to defend you. He knows all the law, all its demands, all its penalties. He is always ready. No new turn of the case can surprise Him, and He will plead for you for nothing as earnestly as though you brought a world of treasures to His feet. Besides that, He has undertaken the rare of thousands who were as forlorn as you, aud he has never lost a case. Courage. O Christian soul. I think that after all there may be some chance for you, for the great Advocate rise's to make his plea, be says: “I admit all that has been proved against my client. I admit all these sins, aye, more: but look at that wounded hand of mine, aud look at that other wounded hand and at ray right foot and at my left foot. By all these wound- I plead for his clearance. Count all the drops of my tears. Count ail the drops of my blood. By the humilia tion of Bethlehem, by the sweat of Geth semane, by the sufferings of the cross I de “SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER.’’ maud that ho go free. On this arm ho hath leaned; to this heart ho hath flown; in my tears he hath washed; on my righteousness ha hath depended. Let bin go free. 1 am the ransom, l.et him escape the lash, I took the si eurgings. Let the cup pass from him, I drank it to the dregs. Put on him tlio crown of life, for 1 have worn the crown of thorns. Over against my cross of shame set his throne of triumph. Well, the counsel on both sides have ipoken and there is ouiy mote thing reiiifuu ng, and that is the awarding of the judg uent. If you have ever been in a court •oo.n you know th ' silent utiil th * solemnity ivlien the verdict is about to bo rendered or Jie judgment about to ho gi\ en. About tins mul on trial, shall it be saved or shall it ho ot< Attention! above, around, beneath. Ml the universe cries: “Hear! Hear! The judge rises aud gives this decision, lover to lie changed, never t> lie revoked: 'There is therefore now no c ndoinnation to shorn who are in Christ Jesus.” ‘The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for re pose, . [ will not, I will not desert to Ins foos; Dint soul, though a'l hell should endeavor to shake, „ I’ll never, no nevi -r, no never forsake. But, my friends, there is coming a day of Srial in which not only the saint hut the sin ner must appear. I hat day of trial will come very suddenly. The laruier will be at the iiloiigh, the merchant will be in the counting room, the woodman will be ringing Ins axe jn the hickories, the weaver will have his oat on the treadle, the manufac turer will be walking amid the )u«* of looms and the clack of Ilyin g ma hiiicrv, tho counsel may be stanlsng at the bar, pleading the law, the minister may ho >le,ading the Gospel, the drunkard maybe reeling amid his cups, and .the blasphemer ivith the oath caught between his toe!li. I.o! tho sun hides. Night comas down nt mid-noon. A wave of darkness rolls over all the earth. The stars apt car at noon day. The earth shudders and throbs. Tbore an earth pm .o opens and a city sinks as a croco :lilo would crunch a child. Mountains roll In their sockets auil send down their granite rlifl's in ail avalanche of ro :k. Rivers pause In their chase for tho sea, a d ocean uproar ing cries to flying Alps and Hitnal xynli. Beasts b 1 low and mean and i-’mff up the darkness, clouds lly like locks of swift eagles. Great thunders tie it an 1 boom and burst. Stars shoot and fall, 'i'li« almighty, rising on 11 is throne, do .-laros that time shall bn n . longer aud the archangel’s trump r peat: it till all the living near nnd tho continents of dead spring to their feet, crying: •'Time shall bo no longer 1” Oil, on that day will you be ready? I have shown you haw well the Christian will get oil' in his trial. Will you get off as well in your trial? Will Olir.st plead on your side or will Ho plead against yi i? Oh,want will you do ia the la-t great assize, if your sonscdenco is against yoi.and tho world is irminst yo l, an 1 tb • an ;<•: . <■!' heaven are n 'ainst you. and the ll»lv S .bin is against you. and t!ie Lord Go I Almighty is against ,ou: Hotter t'lis day secure au a Ivocate. A Talc of a Dog. Yesterday afternoon, about !! o’clock, a dog with a tin kettle tied to Itis wag ging machinery was observed on Austin avenue. The dog did not appear to be much alarmed at flic kettle auy more than the average politician is when he is nominated to a lucrative office. He took it as a matter of course. There was a tall, seedy looking young man standing near a crowd of the sidewalk. He looked intently at the dog for a moment, then said: “By George' that is banker Thomp son’s little daughter's lost dog that he has offered S?TO for.” Immediately five different men, with their mouths sticking out like mucilage bottles, trying to whistle, and saying: “That’s a good little doggy 1” ad vanced on tli" astonished animal. One very respectable looking gentleman, with a silk hat on, tried to detain the animal by his handle, but tli" dog got mixed up with his legs, and down he came like a pile-driver. Several haekmen, who were subsequently arrested for leaving their teams, joined in the canvass, and when the procession turned the corner, with the dog and attachment twenty feet in advance, almost, every of our cos mopolitan population hadi ts delegate in the pageant. Then it was that the sleek young man doubled himself up, and went behind a door until his emotion passed over.— Texas Siftings. It Wasn’t Tooth Powder. I was told yesterday a rather amusing story at the expense of Mark Twain and the same story is already a standing joke in society. Not long ago the hu morist was traveling in the country, and stopped one evening at a house presided over by an elderly woman. He was shown to a room somewhat bare of or nament and furniture, yet slept peace fully until morning. When morning came and he arose, he became mindful of the fact that, although he had pro vided himself with a toothbrush, he had forgotten his tooth powder. He consoled himself with the thought that there must be tooth powder lying somewhere about. After a brief s arch, he discovered some thing', in a small box on the mantel, which certainly resembled tooth powder. At any rate, he used it vigorously on his teeth and found it satisfactoiy. When he got downstairs he apologized to his hostess for using her tooth powder, f-he appeared surprised. “What tooth pow der?” she inquired blandly. “It was on the mantel,” Mark replied. “On the mantel?’’ she repeated. “Yes,in a small box. It was excellent,” he declared. “Good gracious,” she ejaculated. “That wasn’t tooth powder.” “What was it?” a-ked Mark, now slightly alarmed. “Why, that was auntie,” said she. (It seems that “auntie” ha I been cremated.) — lioehester J'ost's .Y>w York Letter. Getting Some Satisfaction. “What’s the matter, Bobby?” in quired h s mother, as the boy flounced into the nursery. “Pa-s-ent me out of the 1-library c-cause I made too much n-noise.” “I hope you didn’t say anything rude to your papa ” “X-no,’ replied Bobby, who knows better thm to be rude to the old man, “but I s-slammed the door.” Im.inoio Knight': of Labor are trying to mine and sell coal, but the railroad; refuse to carry their production. TO FAME. “Bright fairy of the morn, with flowers ar rayed Whose beauties to thy young pursuer i-oem Beyond the ecstasy of poet’s dream— Plmll I o’ertake thee, ere thy lustre fade? “Ripe glory of the noon, to dazzled eyes A pageant of delight nnd bower of gold, Dissolving into mirage manifold— Do I o’ertake tlieo, or mistake thy prize! •'Dull shadow of the evening, gaunt and gray, Al random thrown, beyond me, or above, Ami c >ld as memory in the arms of love Have 1 o’erta’enthen, but to oast away?” ‘‘No morn, or noon, or eve am I,” she sniil “But night, the depth of night behind tho sun; By nil mankind pursued, but never won, Until my shadow (alls upon a shade.” — Harper's Magazine THE PAWNED WATCH. isy maim \ harping davis. I-“ Taking die line 3, 4 as the base, I” David Kershaw s eyes wandered from the book to the window. There was nothing to b - seen there but a red brick wall.about three feet distant. Then they traveled wearily over the walls of his room, with their soiled red and yellow paper, the bare floor, the cheap pine table pi:e 1 with books, the cot-bed in the corner. “If one had even a lire or a stove!” ho muttered, kicking at the black grating of the register, through which a feeble supply of warm air crept into the room. lie took up his book, scrawling impa tiently. /‘lf I take!), 4 as the Lm-e” and niuin Iho hook dropped on his knee. “Four years of this! Four years of ut ter solitude! You’ve taken too big a contract. Date! You can tgo through with it J” and lie fell to staring gloomily at the bricks outside of the window. David Kershaw was a country boy, used to a free, out-door life, to a big house, with roaring tires, and to a large, gay family of young people He had been working for years for the money to carry him through college, and had come up to begin his i o ;rso three months ago. He had not. an acquaintance in the great-city, lie rented this attic room, bought his dinner for ten or fifteen cents at a cheap eating-house, and ate crackers a.- 1 cheese for breakfast and supper, llis ctUthcs were c arse and ill-fitting, and he was painfully conscious of it, and held liimiolf haughtily aloof from his fellow students. College lads are not apt to break through any shell of pride nnd sul lonne s to find the good fellow beneath. They simply let David alone, with a care less indifference more galling than dis like. lie plodded silently from Ihe college to his hare room, and thence to the mis erable eating-house day after day. Being naturally a genial, friendly fel low, the thought of the four long, lonely years to come sickened him. He threw up the window presently, and put his head out to catch a glimpse of the street into which the alley opened. A young man on horseback passed at the moment. It was Jourdan Mitehencr, one of his cla's. Ho rode a blooded nmre, and was fully equipped in cordu roy coat and knickerbockers, cream col ored leggings, and gauntlets. “A regular swell i” thought Kershaw, laughing good-humoredly, lie had no ticed this (‘ro sus of the college before, “lie has a good, strong face. Well, luck’s unevenly divided in this world!” taking up his book with a sigh. Half an hour later there was a knock nt the door. David opened it, expect ing to see his landlady, but there stood Mitehencr, smiling, whip in hand. “Mr. Kershaw?” lifting his hat. “Ashamed not to have known you be fore, but there are such a lot. of us fel lows, you know. Thanks, taking a chair. “My mother saw your name in a catalogue, and sent me to tell you that your mother and she were school mates and friends, ‘Daisy’ and ‘Lily’ that sort of thing, I believe. My mother married a city man, and for that reason, during the years that have pasted, has lost sight, of her old schoolmates who lived awuy from the city.” “And ///// mother married a farmer, and has been poor all of her life,” inter rupted David, morosely. “Yes, yes. American life! Up to-day and down to-morrow,” carelessly. Homcthing in Mitchcner’s manner made his wealth and David's poverty appear paltry accidents, to which they, as men, were loftily superior. Before they had been together ten minutes, David felt his morbid gloom disappear. He began to talk naturally and laugh heartily. “This Mitelie er was a thorough good fellow,” he wrote home that night. “Was riot conscious, apparently, that he was worth a dollar.” The tr th was that Jourdan fully ap preciated the value of his father's great wealth, but he was a well-bred and cour teous young fellow, and knew how to pint a poor and awkward lad at ease. Kershaw was invited to dinner at Mrs. Mitchenei’« on Sunday. Ife went about the next day after this dinner in a daze of delight, at if he had been passing through a golden mist, aud had brought some of it still dinging to him. He hummed a tune, as he pored over his piroblcrns. He did not see the bare floor and hideous wall-paper, but the beauti ful home in which he had been treated as an honored g ;cst. The Persian car pets, the statuary, the table brilliant with flowers and silver, eien tiie delicious fla vors of the dishes lingered gratefully on hit long starved ; elate lie had met, too, women more charming and men more gently-bred than any he had ever known before What a world they lived in! He was even yet bewildered by his glimpse into it. Every luxury and delight waited on the lifting of their hands. Libraries, galleries of art, operas, bnlls, voyages to Europe, to tho Nile! This was life! He wanted more of it— more of it. Mrs. Mitchnor had asked him to ro ne often; had offered to introduce him to her friends, “a gay young set,” she said. He walked up and down the room, flushed and panting. 110 had never dreamed of such a world! lie must see more of it! How stale atul dull the Latin and mathematics seemed now! But how to compass it? He could not go again without a dress suit, lie had seen one that day in a second hand shop, very cho.-ip. His blood grew hot at the idea of wearingsotne other man’s cast-off clothes, but ho pushed that thought sable. How could he raise the money? lie drew out his wntcli. It was a gold one, the one luxurious possession in the fam ily. Ilis father had solemnly given it to | him when he, left home, saying: “It, was my father’s. I’ve kept it in ! my bureau drawer for twenty years. Take it, David. You’re goin’ out into the world. You’ll never disgrace it, my boy.” Remembering tho old man’s face ns ho said this, David thrust it back into lus pocket, “What a snob I am! To part with daddy’s watch for a suit of old clothes!” | But the next moment lio thought that. | lie could pawn it. He would soon have |it back. Save tlio money, or earn it— (somehow. It was not ns if lie were yielding to a vicious temptat ion of tlio town —gambling |or drinking. Tho society of these high ; bred people would elevate, educate him. ! There was a tap at tho door, and Mitch j oner came in. “No, can’t sit down; I’m in a hurry. 1 Brought a message from my mother. She would liko to have you join an opera parly (o night. Eight or ten young people. Meet nt our house, box nt the opera, and back to supper afterward. 1 You’ll come? That’s right. Good i morning!” No! no! Slay! Mr. Mitchener!” His comtnoi -sense suddenly rose strong and ; dear. “I ought not to begin this life, i It’s your life, not mine. I'm a poor man. ; I have four years of hard work here be fore me, nnd after that my living to earn. Even the hour at your house yesterday ruined me for study to-day.” “Well! well!” said Jourdan, carelessly. ! “Don’t he so vehement about it. Going onco to the opera will not make you a man of fashion for life. Think it over, and come. Give the college tho go-by for a day. “Oh, by the way!” ho added, coloring a little. “Gan Ibe of pecuniary service i to you, Kershaw? No, don’t be offendod. 1 have more of (lie filthy lucre than I know what to do with. Tho fact is, I I was just going to boy a terrier that 1 don’t want. Now, if I could lend tho money to you, it would ho a real pleasure to me.” “Thank you!” Kershaw stammered, touched, yet angry. “I do not need any money. I have everything I need— clothes and all," he added, with a gulp. “Now lam in for it!” he groaned, when Mitehencr was gone. “If I don’t go to their party, they’ll think J had no clothes fit to wear. The watch has to go 1” He paced the floor, one minute blaming himself for a snob, the next thrilled with delight at the thought of the evening’s pleasure. His hooks lay neglected all day. lie could not quiet the raging whirl and confusion in Ids mind enough to think of study. He decided on nothing until nearly dark, when he rushed out, pawned the watch for one fourth its value, and bought the evening suit. There was not money enough left to lmy the shoes, gloves, etc., necessary to complete the dress. When he was ready to go, even his inexperienced eye could sec that his costume did not sot on him as if it were made for him. But what matter? His friends —his welcome the music. Who would care what clothes ho wore! Arrived at Mrs. Mitehencr’s, he did not find himself at all at ease. That ludy was quite occupied with her duties as hostess, and received him with careless eivilty, giving her attention to her other guests. They talked of people and tilings of which he knew nothing. The tall, awkward lad, his hair carefully oiled and parted, his red hands protruding from his short coat-sleeves, sat silent, and felt thoroughly miserable nnd out of place. Now and then he thought he saw one of the dainty women near by scanning him with furtive glances. They drove to the opera-house and en tered one of the proscenium boxes. Davd had a seat at the back, where he could catch but an occasional glimpse of the stage and the brilliant audience. He lmd been the leader of the choir at home, and fond of the waltzes and marches which his sister played on the old piano, and fancied himself u connoisseur in music. But he was not educated to un derstand this music. A very pretty, flighty young lady, Mrs. Bellew. who was the chaperone of the party, tried politely to make him talk to iier, but in vain. Bhe turned to Jourdan at last with a shrug of her hare shoul ders. “Your friend,’’she whispered, “seems to be absorbed by his own thoughts, lie does not look as if he were enjoying himself. Who is he?” “tine of my mother's last hobbies; a student in the college from the coun try.” he replied, in the -nine tone They turned to the stage. Kershaw saw their smiles, and knew they were talking of him. His brain was on fire, j Why had he come here? Was he not the j equal of these dainty folk, as well -born, aa virtuous, as clever, as they! They dared to despise him because he was awkward and ill dressed! In his einbarrnssin'-nt and misery he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of bis coat, and drew out a little painted paper tablet, which he fingered mechun R ally, scarcely noticing what it was un- VOL. I. NO. 44. til hi; saw Mrs. Bellow’s eyes fixcrl on it with amazement and suspicion. When the curtain fell on the first act, she came back to him, making some incoherent remarks about the play, while she looked at him keenly. Suddenly she grew pale, and interrupting herself in the middle of a sentence, said to Kershaw: ! ‘Will you bo good enough at tho close of tho next act to go with me and Mr. Mitchener into tho anteroom? I would like to speak with you.” When they had reached tho anteroom nt the close of tho act, she said : “I have a most disagreeable question to ask. Mr. Kershaw. Our house was robbed by burglars last Monday, and silver and jew elry and clothes were taken. Among the rest was an evening suit of my hus band's. You have it on 1 ” “Aren’t you mistaken, Mrs. Bellew?” said young Mitchener. “Ono dress suit is exactly like another, and—■” “My husband,” she went on,excitedly,' “wore it to a hall the night before it was stolen. As wo came home, ho put my tablet, with my dances on it, in one pocket. In the other was my ruby ring, which was too large for my glove. Mr. Kershaw has the tablet in bis pocket.” Kershaw mechanically thrust his hand into the pocket of tho coat, and brought out the tablet and a second later the ring, which had caught, in the lining and so esenped the notice of the thief. He silently held them out to her. The power of speech and action seemed to bo frozen out of him with horror. Mitchener looked at him excitedly, but said, politely: “Have you any objections to telling Mrs. Ucllew bow the suit came in your possession?” Kershaw stared at, him a moment, full of repugnance and contempt for himself. Tlicso were “his new friends!” this was tho party he had parted with his old father’s gift to enter! “1 did not,of course,steal the clothes,” lie said at last. “You cannot really think I did that. But I bought them at a pawn shop to day. I pawned my watch to do it. I wanted to come here.” “All right! all right!” interposed Mitchener, soothingly. “You can bend Mr. [iellew the name of the and lie will recover his silver and jew elry. Mrs Bellcw, the curtain is up." Hho fluttered softly hack to her seat, ar ranging her airy draperies and flowers, and glanced meaningly at young Mitch encr, as If to express disgust for the poor wretch who had bought cast-olf clothes to thrust himself in among peo ple whom he regarded ns his superiors. David saw it all, and rose from his seat pnnting and trembling. “Hit down'. Sit down!, Kershaw!” said Mitchener, putting his hand on his ; shoulder. David shook it off. “No; I've been a fool, but I’ve done with it ull now. I’ll send back the clothes—” “Oh no!” said Mrs Bellow, looking hack with a supercilious smile. ‘Tray keep them.” David lefi the box, and rushing home., stunned with rage and bharne, tore off the stolen clothes and carried them to Mr. Bellew’s house. The next day Mitcbbner, who had a good deal of kind ness and lu< t, arranged the matter. The pawnbroker, who was a receiver of stolen goods, was forced to give up the plate, jewelry and David’s watch. The thieves were discovered and punished. Mrs. Mitchener, still loyal to her old friend, sent David an invitation to a ball the next week, lie declined it. “I have made a mistake,” he told Jourdan, “but I will not do it again. My path in life is straight before me. AVith God’s help. I will keep in it.” His bitter humiliation had taught, him jupter views of life. As time passed, he made friends among the other students, clever, unpretentious young fellows, who, i like himself, had their own way to make in life. His college (lays passed quickly, lie studied medicine, and returned to his native town to practice. Twenty years afterward, Mr. Jourdan Mitchener, passing through this town, now one of the most important cities in Pennsylvania, became suddenly ill, and was attended for several weeks by J)r. Kershaw. Ho heard from others of the high position held by the physician in the community; not only ns the head of his profession, but as on influential citi zen. foremost in every good work, the founder of asylums, while U s family were the centre of the most cultured circle in the city. Mitchener had married a very wealthy woman, and had continued to live only in pursuit of fashionable amusement. “And what have I gained by it?” he thought, bitterly. “If i were to die to morrow, I should be. remembered only as the man who kept the host French cook in New York.” “You were right,” he said to the doc tor when he came that afternoon. “You were right to keep to your own straight, honorable path, and refuse to ape fashion.” “I tried it once, you remember,” said the doctor, smiling. “The most for tunate event of my life was my humilia i tion about my pawned watch. It was a bitter dose, hut it, cured me effectually, livery tick of this old watch since”— drawing it out—“has said to me: ‘Don’t be a snob. Keep steadily on your own path.’ I owe much to Mrs. Bedew. Her treatment of me and my foolish act turned me back from the wrong road. It would have marie iny life a failure.”— youth's Companion. A professional safe burglar told a Pitts burg reporter that when artists in his profession were working at a safe they often used a s-reen of canvas and stiff wire, painted in close imitation of the •-afe they were working on. This they ! stood in front of the safe and worked be i hind it, and when the watchman looked i to see if the safe was safe he saw only the screen, which in the night looked ; like the real thing. Crater Lake in Southern Oregon, j over two thousand feet deep—the deep ; est in America.
