PICTURES EXAMINED. REV. DR. TALMAGE PRESENTS A CLUSTER OF RAPHAELS.

Brilliant Word Painting of Scenes In the Life of Stephen--The Discourse Grouped

Into Five Pictures--A Remarkably Eloquent Sermon.

NEW YORK, Sept. 15--In his sermon for today Rev. Dr. Talmage has chosen

a theme as picturesque as it is spiritu-

ally inspiring. He groups his discourse into "Five Pictures." The text selected was, "Behold, I see the heavens opened"--Acts vii, 56-60. Stephen had been preaching a rousing

sermon, and the people could not stand it. They resolved to do as men sometimes would like to do in this day, if they dared, with some plain preacher of righteousness--kill him. The only way

to silence this man was to knock the breath out of him. So they rushed

Stephen out of the gates of the city,

and, with curse and whoop and bellow, they brought him to the cliff as was

the custom when they wanted to take away life by stoning. Having brought him to the edge of the cliff, they pushed

him off. After he had fallen they came and looked down, and seeing that he was not yet dead they began to drop stones upon hom, stone after stone. Amid this horrible rain of missiles Stephen clambers upon his knees and folds his hands, and then, looking up, he makes two prayers--one for himself, and one for his murderers. "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." That was for himself. "Lord, lay not this sin to their charge." That was for his murderers. Then, from pain and loss of blood, he swooned away and fell asleep. Five Pictures. I want to show you today five pictures: Stephen gazing into heaven, Stephen looking at Christ, Stephen stoned, Stephen in his dying prayer, Stephen asleep.

First, look at Stephen gazing into heaven. Before you take a leap you want to know where you are going to land. Before you climb a ladder you want to know what point the ladder reaches. And it was right that Stephen,

within a few moments of heaven, should be gazing into it. We would all do well

to be found in the same posture. There

is enough in heaven to keep us gazing.

A man of large wealth may have statuary in the hall, and paintings in the sitting room, and works of art in all parts

of the house, but he has the chief pictures in the art gallery, and there hour

after hour you walk with catalogue and

glass and ever increasing admiration.

Well, heaven is the gallery where God has gathered the chief treasures of his realm. The whole universe is his palace. In this lower room where we stop there are many adornments, tessellated floor of amethyst, and on the winding cloud stairs are stretched out canvases on which commingle azure and purple and saffron and gold. But heaven is the gallery in which the chief glories are gathered. There are the brightest robes.

There are the richest crowns. There are

the highest exhilarations. St. John says

of it, "The kings of the earth shall

bring their honor and glory into it."

And I see the procession forming, and

in the line come all empires and the stars spring up into an arch for the

hosts to march under. They keep step to the sound of earthquake, and the pitch of avalanche from the mountains, and the flag they bear is the flame of a consuming world, and all heaven turns out with harps and trumpets and myriad

voiced acclamation of angelic dominions

to welcome them in, and so the kings of the earth bring their honor and glory into it. Do you wonder that good people often stand, like Stephen, looking into heaven? We have many friends there.

There is not a man here so isolated in life but there is some one in heaven

with whom he once shook hands. As a man gets older the number of his celestial acquaintances very rapidly multiplies. We have not had one glimpse of them since the night we kissed them goodby, and they went away, but still we stand gazing at heaven. As when some of our friends go across the sea, we stand on the dock, or on the steam tug, and watch them, and after awhile the hulk of the vessel disappears, and then there is only a patch of sail on the sky, and soon that is gone, and they are all out of sight, and yet we stand looking in the same direction. So when our friends go away from us into the future world we keep looking down through

the Narrows and gazing and gazing as

though we expected that they would come out and stand on some cloud and give us one glimpse of their blissful and

transfigured faces.

While you long to join their companionship, and the years and the days go with such tedium that they break your heart, and the vipers of pain and sorrow and bereavement keep gnawing at your vitals, you will stand, like Stephen, gazing into heaven. You wonder if they have changed since you saw them last. You wonder if they would recognize your face now, so changed has it been with trouble. You wonder if, amid the myriad delights they have, they care as much for you as they used to when they gave you a helping hand and put their shoulders under your burdens. You wonder if they look any older, and sometimes in the evening tide, when the house is all quiet, you wonder if you should call them by their first name if they would not answer, and perhaps sometimes you do make the experiment, and when no one but God and yourself are there you distinctly call their names and listen and sit gazing into heaven. Gazing on Christ. Pass on now and see Stephen looking upon Christ. My text says he saw the Son of Man at the right hand of God. Just how Christ looked in this world, just how he looks in heaven, we cannot say. The painters of the different ages have tried to imagine the feartures of Christ and put them upon canvas, but we will have to wait until with our own eyes we see him and with our own ears we can hear him. And yet there is a way of seeing him and hearing him now. I have to tell you that unless you see and hear Christ on earth you will never see and hear him in heaven. Look! There he is! Behold the Lamb of God. Can you not see him? Then pray to God to take the scales off your eyes. Look that way--try to look that way. His voice comes down to you this day--comes down to the blindest, to the deafest soul--saying, "Look unto me, all ye ends of the earth, and be ye saved, for I am God, and there is none else." Proclamation of universal emancipation for all slaves. Tell me, ye who know most of the world's history, what other king ever asked the abandoned, and the forlorn, and the wretched, and the outcast to come and sit beside him? Oh, wonderful invitation! You can take it today and stand at the head of the darkest alley in all this city and say: "Come! Clothes for your rags, salve for your sores, a throne for your eternal reigning." A Christ that talks like that and acts like that and pardons like that--do you wonder that Stephen stood looking at him? I hope to spend eternity doing the same thing. I must see him. I must look upon the face once clouded with my sin, but now radiant with my pardon. I want to touch that hand that knocked off my shackles. I want to hear the voice that pronounced my deliverance. Behold him, little children, for if you live to threescore years and ten you will see none so fair. Behold Him, ye aged ones, for he only can shine through the dimness of your failing eyesight. Behold him, earth. Behold him, heaven. What a moment when all the nations of the saved shall gather around Christ! All faces that way. All thrones that way, gazing on Jesus. His worth if all the nations knew Sure the whole earth would love him too.

Stoned by the World. I pass on now and look at Stephen stoned. The world has always wanted to get rid of good men. Their very life is an assault upon wickedness. Out with Stephen through the gates of the city. Down with him over the precipices. Let every man come up and drop a stone upon his head. But these men did not so much kill Stephen as they killed themselves. Every stone rebounded upon them. While these murderers are transfixed by the scorn of all good men Stephen lives in the admiration of all Christendom. Stephen stoned, but Stephen alive. So all good men must be pelted. "All who will live godly in Christ Jesus must suffer persecution." It is no eulogy of a man to say that everybody likes him. Show me any one who is doing all his duty to state or church, and I will show you scores of men who utterly abhor him. If all men speak well of you, it is because you are either a laggard or a dolt. If a steamer makes rapid progress through the waves, the water will boil and foam all around it. Brave soldiers of Jesus Christ will hear the carbines click. When I see a man with voice and money and influence all on the right side, and some caricature him, and some sneer at him, and some denounce him, and men who pretend to be actuated by right motives conspire to cripple him, to cast him out, to destroy him, I say, "Stephen stoned." When I see a man in some great moral or religious reform battling against grogshops, exposing wickedness in high places, by active means trying to purify the church and better the world's estate, and I find that the newspapers anathematize him, and men, even good men, oppose him and denounce him because, though he does good, he does not do it in their way, I say, "Stephen stoned." But you notice, my friends, that while they assaulted Stephen they did not succeed really in killing him. You may assault a good man, but you cannot kill him. On the day of his death Stephen spoke before a few people in the sanhedrin. This Sabbath morning he addresses Christendom. Paul, the apostle, stood on Mars hill addressing a handful of philosophers who knew not so much about science as a modern schoolgirl. Today he talks to all the millions of Christendom about the wonders of justification and the glories of resurrection. John Wesley was howled down by the mob to whom he preached, and they threw bricks at him, and they denounced him, and they jostled him, and they spat upon him, and yet today, in all lands, he is admitted to be the great father of

Methodism. Booth's bullet vacated the presidential chair, but from that spot of coagulated blood on the floor in the box of Ford's theater there sprang up the new life of a nation. Stephen stoned,

but Stephen alive.

A Dying Prayer. Pass on now and see Stephen in his dying prayer. His first thought was not how the stones hurt his head, nor what would become of his body. His first thought was about his spirit. "Lord Jesus receive my spirit." The murderer standing on the trapdoor, the black cap being drawn over his head before the execution, may grimace about the future, but you and I have no shame in

confessing some anxiety about where we

are going to come out. You are not all body. There is within you a soul. I see it gleam from your eyes today, and I see it irradiating your countenance. Sometimes I am abashed before an audience, not because I come under your physical eyesight, but because I realize the truth that I stand before so many immortal spirits. The probability is that your body will at last find a sepulcher in some of the cemeteries that surround this city. There is no doubt that your obsequies will be decent and respectful, anad you will be able to pillow your head under the maple, or the Norway spruce, or the cypress, or the blossoming fir, but this spirit about which Stephen prayed, what direction will that take? What guide will escort it? What gate will open to receive it? What cloud will be cleft for its pathway? After it has got beyond the light of our sun will there be torches lighted for it the rest of the way? Will the soul have to travel through long deserts before it reaches the good land? If we should lose our pathway will there be a castle at whose gate we may ask the way to the city? Oh, this mysterious spirit within us! It has two wings, but it is in a cage now. It is locked fast to keep it, but let the door of this cage open the least, and that soul is off. Eagle's wing could not catch it. The lightnings are not swift enough to come up with it. When the soul leaves the body it takes 50 worlds at a bound. And have I no anxiety about it? Have you no anxiety about it? I do not care what you do with my body when my soul is gone, or whether you believe in cremation or inhumation. I shall sleep just as well in a wrapping of sackcloth as in satin lined with eagle's down. But my soul--before I close this discourse I will find out where it will land. Thank God for the intimation of my text that when we die Jesus takes us. That answers all questions for me. What though there were massive bars between here and the City of Light, Jesus could remove them. What though there were great Saharas of darkness, Jesus could illume them. What though I get weary on the way, Christ could lift me on his omnipotent shoulder. What though there were chasms to cross, his hand could transport me. Then let Stephen's prayer be my dying litany. "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." It may be in that hour we will be too feeble to say a long prayer. It may be in that hour we will not be able to say the Lord's Prayer, for it has seven petitions. Perhaps we may be too feeble even to say the infant prayer our mothers taught us, which John Quincy Adams, 70 years of age, said every night when he put his head upon his pillow: Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. We may be too feeble to employ either of these familiar forms, but this prayer of Stephen is so short, is so concise, is so earnest, is so comprehensive, we surely will be able to say that. "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." Oh, if that prayer is answered, how sweet it will be to die! This world is clever enough to us. Perhaps it has treated us a great deal better than we deserved to be treated, but if on the dying pillow there shall break the light of that better world we shall have no more regret than about leaving a small, dark, damp house for one large, beautiful and capacious. That dying minister in Philadelphia, some years ago, beautifully depicted it when, in the last moment, he threw up his hands and cried out, "I move into the light!"

A Peaceful Sleep. Pass on now, and I will show you one more picture, and that is Stephen asleep. With a pathos and simplicity peculiar to the Scriptures the text says of Stephen, "He fell asleep." "Oh," you say, "what a place that was to sleep! A hard rock under him, stones falling down upon him, the blood streaming, the mob howling. What a place it was to sleep!" And yet my text takes that symbol of slumber to describe his departure, so sweet was it, so contented was it, so peaceful was it. Stephen had lived a very laborious life. His chief work had been to care for the poor. How many loaves of bread he had distributed, how many bare feet he had sandaled, how many cots of sickness and distress he had blessed with ministries of kindness and love, I do not know.

Yet from the way he lived, and the way he preached, and the way he died, I know he was a laborious Christian. But that is all over now. He has pressed the cup to the last fainting lip. He has taken the last insult from his enemies. The last stone to whose crushing weight he is susceptible has been hurled. Stephen is dead! The disciples come.

They take him up. They wash away

the blood from the wounds. They

straighten out the bruised limbs. They

brush back the tangled hair from the brow, and then they pass around to look upon the calm countenance of him who had lived for the poor and died for the truth. Stephen asleep!

I have seen the sea driven with the hurricane until the tangled foam caught in the rigging, and wave rising above wave seemed as if about to storm the heavens, and then I have seen the tempest drop, and the waves crouch, and everything become smooth and burnished as though a camping place for the glories of heaven. So I have seen a man whose life has been tossed and driven coming down at last to an infinite calm in which there was a hush of heaven's lullaby. Stephen asleep! I saw such a one. He fought all his days against poverty and against abuse. They traduced his name. They rattled at the doorknob while he was dying with duns for debts he could not pay. Yet the peace of God brooded over his pillow, and while the world faded heaven dawned, and the deepening twilight of earth's night was only the opening twilight of heaven's morn. Not a sigh. Not a tear. Not a struggle. Hush! Stephen asleep. I have not the faculty as many have to tell the weather. I can never tell by the setting sun whether there will be a drought or not. I cannot tell by the blowing of the wind whether it will be fair weather or foul on the morrow. But I can prophesy and I will prophesy what weather it will be when you, the Christian, come to die. You may have it very rough now. It may be this week one annoyance, the next another annoyance. It may be this year one bereavement, the next another bereavement. But at the last Christ will come in, and darkness will go out. And though there may be no hand to close your eyes, and no breast on which to rest your dying head, and no candle to lift the night, the odors of God's hanging garden will regale your soul, and at your bedside will halt the chariots of the king. No more rents to pay, no more agony because flour has gone up, no more struggle with "the world, the flesh and the devil," but peace--long, deep, everlasting peace. Stephen asleep!

Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, From which none ever wake to weep! A calm and undisturbed repose, Uninjured by the last of foes. Asleep in Jesus, far from thee Thy kindred and thy graves may be, But there is still a blessed sleep, From which none ever wake to weep. You have seen enough for one day. No one can successfully examine more than five pictures in a day. Therefore we stop, having seen this cluster of divine Raphaels--Stephen gazing into heaven, Stephen looking at Christ, Stephen stoned, Stephen in his dying prayer, Stephen asleep.

BUENOS AYRES.

Argentine's Capital Is the Queen of the Southern Hemisphere.

The omniscient Whitaker, under the

heading "British Possessions in Aus-

tralasia," states that Melbourne, with its suburbs, contained on Dec. 31, 1894, an estimated population of 444,832 inhabitants, "being the most populous city in the southern hemisphere." We have always understooed Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Ayres to be also in the southern hemispher, and, oddly enough, Whitaker himself gives larger figures for both of these cities than for Mel-

bourne. The remark is probably one that has been at some time true and has

been carried on from year to year.

In any case, the results of the census establish incontestably the claim of Buenos Ayres to be the greatest city of South America and of the southern hemisphere. With allowances for imperfections in the execution of the census, inseparable from the way in which it

was carried out, the figure 655,688 may be taken as practically correct, and no other city in this half of the world can lay claim to possessing within 100,000 of this number of inhabitants.

The population of Buenos Ayres is thus larger than that of any city of the United Kingdom, except London and Glasgow. It is considerably larger than that of Liverpool or Birmingham, and

it is only about 50,000 less than the combined populations of Manchester and Salford. Of the great cities of Europe

only Paris, Berlin, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Constantinople and Moscow surpass Buenos Ayres, and in North America only New York, Brooklyn, Chicago and Philadelphia. Our city is the second city of the Latin world, surpassing Madrid, Naples and Rome in Europe and Rio Janeiro, Santiago, Lima and Mexico in the new world. The rate of growth is no less remarkable than the actual size, for in the last eight years Buenos Ayres has increased about 50 per cent.--Buenos Ayres Review.

EXPERT HOTEL ROBBER. He Relieved Schuyler Colfax of a Bag Full of Securities.

"Did you ever hear of Charley Holt, the prince of hotel thieves?" said Detective James McDevitt. "Well, I had two encounters with that gentleman here in Washington. My first experience was brief and devoid of sensational incident. "A guest in an up town hotel awoke one night and saw a man going through his clothes. He gave chase to the robber, who dropped his booty, consisting of a watch and several hundred dollars, in the hallway. "He managed to outrun his pursuer and reached his room on an upper floor unseen. The hotel people sent for me, and after searching the register and making some inquiries I went straight to Holt's room and put him under arrest. He accompanied me to headquarters without a murmur, but as we had no proof against him he was let go, with a warning never to show up again at the capital. "He staid away three years, but the next time he came he did a job of no less magnitude than to rob the vice president of the United States, Schuyler Colfax, of $125,000 in bonds and securities. The robbery occurred at Wormley's hotel, between 5 and 6 o'clock, on the evening of Feb. 22, 1869. I had been to Alexandria that day and heard of the affair as soon as I reached the city, about 9 p. m. The first thing I did was to go to a restaurant keeper and ask him if any crooked people were in town. He replied that there was a party in the ledger line at a place on Tenth street, near the old gas office. In company with the chief of police I went to the house and asked of the landlady if she had any strangers stopping there. She said yes, and on telling her our business she admitted us into the parlor, where a good looking young man was walking the floor, apparently in a nervous condition. "Before we could say a word he remarked: 'I know who you are after. Charley Holt has stolen a lot of bonds belonging to the vice president. He told me so himself and said he was nearly scared to death when he found whose property he had taken. You'll find the stuff in the express office, for he boxed it all up and shipped it to Philadelphia this evening. "Here was a revelation to take a man's breath away. I never dreamed of making such a swift capture. We went to the express and got the securities right enough without any trouble. It would have been an easy matter to get Holt, but Mr. Colfax, for some reason, vetoed the proposition to catch him, and he went scot free of that particular crime. The fellow who told me was a crook, but had nothing to do with the transaction, and in consideration of the 'give away' was allowed to leave the city with a warning."

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Burmese Girls. In every household the daughter has her appointed work. In all but the richer merchants' houses the daughter's duty is to bring the water from the well evening and morning. It is the gossiping place of the village, this well, and as the sun sets there come running down all the girls of the village. As they fill their jars they lean over the curb and

talk, and it is here that are told the latest news, the latest flirtation, the latest marriage, the little scandal of the place.

Very few men come. Water carrying is not their duty, and there is a proper time and place for flirtation. So the girls have the well almost to themselves.

Almost every girl will weave. In every house there will be a loom, where the girls weave their dresses and those of their parents. And very many girls will have stalls in the bazaar; but of this I will speak later. Other duties are the husking of the rice and the making of cheroots. Of course in the richer households there will be servants to do all this, but even in them the daughter will frequently weave, either for herself or for her parents. Almost every girl will do something, if it be only to pass the time.--Blackwood's Magazine.

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What Sir Walter Scott Thought Hot.

We complain of our hot weather, and yet we can scarcely realize what it must be to foreigners, as the British, who have never known the thermometer to mount above what to us is an autumn-like temperature. We consider England raw and cold, and still the Scotch talk as Scott did of the Anglican youth's

better manners, as "ripened by the sun of the south." Sir Walter made some

entries in his journal which seem very odd to us, with 90 degrees of heat by no means a rare thing in our experience. He dolefully indited that he was obliged to walk in the shade of the houses, because it was 68 in even that shade one day, and began another entry: "Hot! Hot! Hot! Sixty-five here. Seventy in Edinburgh. Poor Edinburgh!"--Philadelphia Press.

What She Saw. Mme. De Cormel went to Versailles to see the French court, when M. De Torcy and M. De Seignelay, both very young, had just been appointed ministers. She saw them as well as Mme. De Maintenon, who had then grown old. When she returned to Paris, some one asked her what remarkable things she

had seen. "I have seen," she said,

"what I never expected to see there. I

have seen love in its tomb and the ministry in its cradle."

OCEAN CITY. A Moral Seaside Resort. Not Excelled as a Health Restorer. Finest facilities for FISHING, Sailing, gunning, etc.

The Liquor Traffic and its kindred evils are forever prohibited by deed.

Every lover of Temperance

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The Emotion of Grief in Animals.

Dutch was a brown retriever of advanced years. Curly was reputed to be a Scotch terrier, but his appearance sug-

gested some uncertainty in his descent. Dutch was chained to her kennel, and Curly, who enjoyed his liberty, evinced his friendship by frequently taking bones and other canine delicacies to his less fortunate friend. One morning Curly presented himself at the house, evincing unmistakable signs of grief by his demeanor and his whines. A visit to the kennel, where poor Dutch was found lying dead, showed the occasion of Curly's unhappiness. We buried Dutch decorously under a vine in the garden and supposed that Curly would forget the incident, but we were touched to see him in the capacity of faithful mourner often revisit the spot where his old friend was laid, taking with him, by way of offering, choice bones, which he carefully buried by the grave. This practice Curly continued for two years, when we left the house.--Cor London Spectator.

His Fee.

B. F. Hamilton of Biddleford, Me., never talks much about his defense of

an individual who was arrested and arraigned for breaking into a jewelry store and stealing a lot of watches. The court assigned the shrewd and energetic Biddeford attorney to defend the prisoner.

deford attorney to defend the prisone"I didn't do it," the prisoner told the lawyer. "I wouldn't do such a thing as that on my life. Really, Mr. Hamilton, I didn't do it. You can take my word as you hear me tell you, but I suppose they'll railroad me." The trial was held before Judge Virgin. The prisoner was acquitted, and when he met his lawyer in the afternoon said to him: "What is the amount of your bill?" "Well, about $100," replied the lawyer. "Would you take $25?" asked the free man. "Well, that's better than nothing," said the lawyer, and he said, "Twenty-five it is." They stepped outside, and the discharged man said to the lawyer, "Say, if you'll wait until I get to Boston so I can sell those watches I'll send you the $25." A week later Mr. Hamilton received his $25.--Bangor Commerical.

ALBERT GILBERT. MARK LAKE. GILBERT & LAKE,

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Maine Paving Most American Cities. The outpost of Maine granite quarries for the last calendar year proves that the state has an important place in supplying paving stones for American cities. The value of the total granite prod-

uct for the state was $1,551,636--$300,000 more than in 1893--and half

of it was used for paving the thoroughfares of municipalities, some far to the

west and the south. This is according to the statistics in the forthcoming re-

port of the United States geological survey in the department of stone products, prepared by Dr. William C. Day of Swarthmore college and Professor William A. Raborg. The total value of stone products in the state for 1894 is $7,507,465.--Lewiston Journal.

Some men do as much begrudge others a good name as they want one themselves, and perhaps that is the reason of it.--Penn.

The Conservative Elephant. "Nowadays," said Mr. Bugleby, "pretty much everybody carries a dress suit case, but I notice that the elephant sticks to his trunk. No dress suit case for him, eh?"--New York Sun.

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The old Scythians painted blind fortune's powerful heads with wings to show her gifts come swift and suddenly.--Chapman.

Thousands of lots for sale various prices, located in all

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