When the Young Men's Christian Association left our bed and board,
without just cause or provocation, and took up its abode in Bon Accord
Hall, we felt as though we had been bereaved of a fruitful source of
items, and at first we were inclined to advertise the association, and
warn dealers not to trust them on our account, as their credit was as
good as ours, but almost every day we hear of something that will do to
write up.
The new hall of the association was formerly used by Prof. Sherman as a
dancing academy, and the other night when young Mr. Collingbourne agreed
to go around to the dancing school and escort a lady friend home, about
half past nine, he did not know of the change. At the appointed time
he went to the place he had always found the dancing school, and at the
bottom of the stairs he met a solemn looking sort of person who handed
him a circular and said, “Come in, brother, and partake freely of the
waters of life.”
“You bet your boots,” says Collingbourne, as he threw his cigar into the
street, “but don't we get anything but water?”
Mr. Collingbourne is the last man in the world who would appear
irreverent, but he thought it was a dancing school, and when a mournful
looking man on the first landing took him by the arm and said, “Come
all ye who are weary and heavy laden,” he felt that there was an effort
being made to snatch his watch, so he jerked away from the brother and
told him he didn't want any taffy, and if he wasn't careful he would get
kicked so his head would ache.
The good brother thought Collingbourne was a brand that it would be
creditable to pluck from the burning, so he followed him up stairs,
telling him there was salvation for all, only to meet with the reply
that he better mind his own business or he would get salivated so his
folks would not know him.
At the top of the stairs he met two men that he had never seen at the
dancing school, and he felt as though he was being cornered for no good,
as the other fellow had closed in on his rear. The two new brothers each
took hold of one of his hands, and were telling him how glad they were
that he had shown a disposition to turn over a new leaf and try to lead
a different life, and they began to picture to him the beauty of faith,
when he backed up against the railing and said, “I don't know who you
fellows are, but you have tackled the wrong boy. I have been brought
up in this town, and I know all the games, and you can't get me on
any racket,” and then he looked at the door, as the piano sounded the
beautiful tune, “From Greenland's Icy Mountains,” and asked, “What time
does the cotillion break up?” The good brother told him it was early
yet, and “while the lamp holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may
return.”
The visitor said he would go in, he guessed, and shake his foot once,
just for luck, and he opened the door. Such a sight met his eyes as he
never saw in a dancing school before. The whole congregation nearly, was
on its knees, and a good man was offering up a prayer that was indeed
beautiful. Collingborne began to sweat in three different languages, but
being a gentleman who had the most unbounded respect for religion in all
its forms, he uncovered his head and bowed reverently while the prayer
was being uttered.
When it was through he turned to one of the truly good people in the
hall, that had watched his devotion, and said, “Say, boss, this is
evidently a new scheme. I thought this was Sherman's dancing school. You
must excuse my seeming irreverence. If you will kick me down stairs I
will consider it a special dispensation of providence,” and he went down
into the wicked world and asked a policeman where the dancing school
was. All the way home the lady friend asked him what made him so solemn,
but he only said his boots fit him too quick. He never goes to a dancing
school now without finding out if it is there yet.