GOOD FELLOWSHIP.

By the Rev. A. WALLACE.

'Hallo! what's ado?' exclaimed a bluff, weather-beaten, redfaced coachman, when, on turning a sharp corner of the road, the ‘Defiance' came in sight of the village public-house which formed the last stage for the night.

His sudden exclamation was called forth by a large crowd of men, women, and children gathered around the door of the village inn, and shrieking, screaming, running, and dancing as blows fell thick and fast from six or seven drunk fellows; in the midst .of whom, and above all the rest, was seen the village blacksmith, with his face begrimed with soot and blood.

It was a sad sight in the open face of one of the loveliest summer evenings I had ever seen. The setting sun was gilding the white-washed gable end of the village inn, and its swing signboard, on which were painted two hands most lovingly joined together, and the words, 'Good fellowship for ever.'

'Strange "good fellowship" this,' said Coachee, as he pointed to the landlord, a gruff, woolly-headed, thick-set, in-kneed man, who was belaboring, both with feet and hands, a stalwart ploughman, bowed like a willow wand, and stupid with drink, and all bespattered with blood.

What a scene in the midst of nature's loveliness! The hawthorn was in full blossom; the pure stream fringed with flowers, over which bent from either side the graceful willow; and on which the blackbird chanted its hymn to the setting sun; and not a hundred yards from this was a bloody fight! Many a horrible oath fell upon the ear of that gloaming hour.

And all this was under the eye of 'Good fellowship for ever,' and within reach of the two hands that were so lovingly joined together as if they would never part.

The driver turned his coach from the ghastly spectacle into a narrow shaded lane, where all the passengers alighted, and all took their respective ways for the night.

About three hours afterwards I returned to the scene of fight. There was 'Good fellowship for ever,' swinging in the calm, clear, unclouded light of the moon, as if in awful mockery of the blows, and blood, and broken heads he had so lately seen.

Never did a clearer moon look down upon that lovely village than on that night of the drunken storm, which was not yet spent.

Three poor wretches, the wrecks of that tempest of blows,

blood, and oaths, were staggering before me beneath the light of the sweetest faced moon that ever looked upon earth.

What sad tales could the pale-faced moon tell of this world! Poor wretches! they were trying to find their way back to 'Good fellowship for ever.'

There they stood, covered with blood, in the clear moonlight. What a ghastly picture!

Perhaps children and wives were waiting their return. Poor mothers! poor children!

Every now and then these poor wretches made for the publichouse. How true the words of the wise man, which he hath put into the mouth of the drunkard: "They have stricken me, and I was not sick; they have beaten me, and I felt it not: when shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.'

Young friends, never seek good fellowship in the public-house. I hear you say, No, never!

THE PLEASING CONTRAST.

A DIALOGUE.

By Mr. J. T. PARKER.

My little dear,

Come to me, here!

I wish to talk with you.

On Monday nights, I've often seen
You pass by here, so neat and clean,
Where are you going to?

Your face I've known, for many weeks,
When you had not

Such nice clothes got;

And then, with many more

Rude girls and boys,
You'd make a noise,

At boisterous play,

All through the day:

Your changed appearance speaks,

As it would say,

Madam, to day,
Under good rule,
I go to school;

I did not go before.

The change so great excites in me

Respectful curiosity.

With pleasure, Madam, I will tell
The reason why,

This evening, I

Am dressed so neat, and look so well.
Two years ago, my ragged clothes,
And shoes, both worn out at the toes,
My uncombed hair, and dirty face,
The poorest school would thus disgrace.
Just like a savage, I ran wild,
Because I was a drunkard's child.
All days were then alike to me,
Into a church I never went;
I was so ignorant, you see,

I did not know what worship meant.
Had you no mother, then, at home,

To teach you to know wrong from right,
Your face to wash, your hair to comb,
And in her darling take delight?

My mother died so long ago,

That I can scarcely call to mind
What she was like; nor do I know
If she was loving, or unkind.
I was my father's only one,

But he took little heed of me,

He gave me food, and I suppose

He, or some kind friend, gave me clothes.
But all day long he left me free,

With idle boys and girls to run;
He never beat me, Madam, he
Was too good natured, and I think

He would not have neglected me,
But for the publican's strong drink.
The public house, or skittle ground,
Was where my father would be found
After his work was done; in there,
With other men who did not care
For any thing, but smoke and beer;

He never thought of me, I fear.

But now he is quite a different man ;

The Temperance pledge one night he signed,

And I am sure I never can

Love him too much, he is so kind!

We've a nice house, with tables, chairs,
A bed for him, and one for me:
Two rooms below, and three up stairs,
One room we call, 'the nursery.'
For I've a kind teetotal mother,
And such a pretty little brother!
So that, I'm sure, I ought to be
A happy girl; and when you see

Me, on a Monday night, this street in,
I'm going to the Temperance meeting.
The Band of Hope, on Monday night,
Its meeting holds; and I recite
Such pretty verses; and we sing
Praises to Christ, our Heavenly King.
For his great love, oh! lady, dear!
I wish you'd come with me, and hear
Our songs, and then I think that you
Would be a pledged teetotaler, too.
I think I will a visit pay;

And the next time you come this way,
If you will call, with you I'll go;

Your story interests me so,

That I am sure, with pleasure, I

The pledge shall take; and then I'll try
To help the Temperance Cause, and be
A friend to true sobriety.

AN EARNEST APPEAL TO CHRISTIAN MOTHERS.

The question of "Total Abstinence," has been so long before the public, and its many bearings on health and morals have been so fully enlarged upon, that most persons are ready to think they have had enough of the subject. Physiologists have shown the physical evils of intoxicating drinks, and moralists have continued the lesson, to prove that the mental is as great as the bodily harm,-and that crime is as inevitable a social result of their use as disease. And yet many parents, even Christian parents, are still averse to total abstinence, and think they see in it the attempted revival of a yoke around the neck of Christian liberty. They shrink from asceticism, and will not be bound in respect of meats and drinks. They cannot understand that they must refrain from certain things because there are people who misuse them; and believe that they and their children will, with common prudence, be secure. They bid us turn to the drunkard (of whose reform they cannot but approve), and refuse a pledge which their sobriety evinces to be needless for them. These objections meet us on every hand, and from some of the best of

people; yet we cannot think that the work of temperance reformers can ever be complete, whilst one Christian mother is indifferent to total abstinence as a great social question. We cannot think that they should rest until they have gained the candid attention of each one to their views, and set before them the danger of educating their children in the use of alcoholic stimulants.

These mothers are not thoughtless. They are not looking on their children as the gifts of chance, to be brought up at the mercy of circumstances, to live as best they can, and to die as best they may. They are regarding them, in the words of Holy Writ, as "an heritage from the Lord," and are looking on them as the hope of the church for future years; the lambs of the Saviour's fold now, the sheep of his pasture hereafter. They view the most trivial acts of their daily life with attention, and guard every avenue to their minds with ceaseless care, lest evil should enter unawares. Every temptation to sin is checked, every tendency to wrong discouraged, and the Christian mother thanks the friend whose quick perception warns her of an unperceived danger.

But what if the danger comes in an unsuspected and subtle form-in some pleasure in which she indulges-in some habit which she can hardly forego? She has said, in general terms, I can sacrifice everything for my child,-rest, leisure, society; for him I could change the habits of my life, renounce my accustomed pursuits, and give up my cherished enjoyments;-can she in practice refuse to give up one small indulgence for his sake?

No, surely! The Christian mother only needs to be convinced that total abstinence is her duty, and, in the words of the apostle, she will exclaim, "If meat make my [child] to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth, lest I make [my child] to offend."

But will intoxicating drinks make your child to offend? There, Christian mother, lies your difficulty, and there the cause of your hesitation. It may be that a long line of honoured ancestors have left you the example of a moderate and justifiable use of these things. You have heard your father reccommend them to his guests, and have seen your mother use them to revive fainting childhood, and to stimulate the flagging energies of age; you have always been accustomed to see them resorted to as a cordial for sickness, and a social pleasure for health; and what are you that you should esteem yourself wiser than your parents? Why should you dread for your children what they valued for theirs?

This is one side of the question; but you are indeed blessed if you have never lost a relative or friend in that worst death of all the faculties which intoxication produces; if you have never seen intellect blighted, and affections quenched, and prospects ruined, by yielding to the potent temptation of strong drinks. Your children may be temperate as your fathers have been, and self-controlled; but will you not remember that there is another possibility? Can you forget that there is a possibility of your seeing the child who is the delight of your eyes become such a man as you would blush to behold; and that the voice now ringing its happy tones in your ears may learn to utter the profanity or the folly of the drunkard? Can you forget that there is a degradation, a little short of absolute and