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stops the drunkenness, which all will allow to be a very bad thing.

Mary. But doesn't moderate drinking stop drunkenness?

Jane. Very seldom ; at any rate, whenever I hear that a drunkard has been reformed, it is by teetotalism.

Mary. But, because there are those that take more than they want, that is no reason why we should give up drinking altogether!

Jane. I think that is a great reason why we should give it up; for the drunkard would say, “I don't see why I should give up my glass or two, for you don't give up yours.” And I think we also should give up moderate drinking, for it is dangerous ; for all drunkards were once moderate drinkers; and also we ought to remember the old proverb, “Prevention is better than Cure.”

Mary. Well, Jane, I must confess that you are right; but what else have you to say why we should give up moderate drinking ?

Jane. This:-Because the Bible speaks against it.

Mary. Why, I always thought the Bible was for it; for Paul advises Timothy to take a “little for his stomach's sake, and for his often infirmities." Jane. Paul only advises Timothy to take it as a medicine,

“ take a little,” which I should think doesn't mean take it every day, for that is not a little.

Mary. But then Solomon says, “Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine to him that is of a heavy heart."

Jane. That means, "take it as a medicine,” for I am sure you are not ready to perish, nor of a heavy heart; but besides, Solomon says a little further


“Look not upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright; at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder;" and


passages does Solomon give. Then again, Samson was ordered not to take wine or strong drink, and also John the Baptist, which commands came from God.

Mary. It is certain you have defeated me with these two arguments; but what is the next reason why we should become teetotalers ?

Jane. This: because it is better for your health than being moderate drinkers.

Mary. That can't be, Jane, for the doctor ordered me to take a glass of porter every day with my dinner, and surely they ought to know what is best.

for he says

uncle says

Jane. But, Mary, those are only common doctors, whose advice I would never take in the place of such men as we were told of to-night, as Professor Miller, and some other men.

Mary. What does Professor Miller and these other great men say

y? Jane. Why, they say intoxicating liquors are injurious to the body, for they are no more or less than poisong.

Mary. But, Jane, how is it that men that work in the field all day under the sun, can't do without it; for my he can't.

Jane. But, Mary, has he tried to do without it?
Mary. No, I don't think he has.

Jane. Then he can't tell whether he can do without it or not; I dare say he feels better after he has had a drop of beer, but remember, it does not give him strength to go on with his work; it is only a stimulant, which is not strength, for do you suppose when spurs are pricked into a horse's body, that they give it strength ? of course it doesn't, for when it has finished its work, it is more tired still, and the case is the same with a


Mary. Does any one else besides Professor Miller


this? Jane. Yes, and also two thousand of the greatest doctors in the kingdom.

Mary. Well, I must say that you are right, Jane, and now I think I shall ask father and mother whether I may join the Band of Hope ; but they will be expecting me home now, so I must say good-night.

Jane. Good-night, Mary.


The Editor of the British Workman."

(FROM AN ADDRESS AT DARLINGTON.) “When he visited his native city, and inquired there for his old schoolmates, it was then that he was led with thankfulness to look back upon the past 23 or 24 years, because he saw so many who then could afford to laugh at him for relinquishing what they thought liberty, who were now either filling a drunkard's grave or going down to poverty and bankruptcy. He doubted whether there were many present who had been tried as he had been. About 11 years ago he was very severely put to the test. After leaving York to go to London, his strength began to give way, and apparently his days were numbered. He came back to his native city and consulted one of the most eminent physicians in the North of England. He examined him carefully, and then with sincerity, and the greatest gravity, said, “You must drink two or three glasses of wine a



day.' He looked at him and added, 'I know your connection with the Temperance cause, but I tell you as your friend that you will die, and that shortly if you don't.' He was weakly, and he must acknowledge that he did not think at that time he was likely to live, but he had examined it in a medical point of view, and he felt that if his system did require a doctor who carefully recommended medicine, he ought not to send him to the brewer or spirit-merchant for strength. Although he felt he could consistently take it at that time without violating his pledge, he said, “No, I will not do it; I do not believe that God will let me die for want of wine.' He went back to London, and in a few days consulted Dr. James Clarke. He made very minute inquiries as to his mode of living, and then came the question, • What liquors do you drink?' He replied, “I have been a Teetotaler for 12 years, and have never tasted wine, spirits, or beer during that time.' "I am glad of that, sir,' he replied ; 'you will be better sooner without it.' Now, had be taken his first doctor's advice, in all human probability he would have recovered, but to this day he might have attributed his recovery to the wine which be drank. He mentioned that at a meeting about a year after, when George Cruickshank jnmped up and said, “That is just my case; the doctors told me the same thing some months ago.' Twelve months after that, he was at another meeting, when a gentlemanly-looking person said 10 him, ' I have great cause to thank God that you mentioned that fact about the doctors, and that Mr. Cruickshank confirmed what you

said.' The gentleman then went on to tell him how he had been ordered to drink small quantities of spirits by his medical man; and how he was on the point of committing suicide that night, when what was then said lit up a spark of hope in his bosom, and be resolved to live without it. That man signed the pledge, and afterwards became one of the most succesful labourers in the cause in one of the worst districts in London.


(From "Scriptural Sketches,” published by M'Glashan, Dublin.)

Tis early morn- - from off the freshened grass

No footstep yet has brushed the moisture sweet
Which the night skies have wept. Pellucid glass

Or sparkling crystal seem the drops that meet
The slanting sunbeams! Oh! how fair, how bright
Is morning's hour of loneliness and light.
Let me look forth on such-let me again

Dream, as I gaze o'er all the hopes of youth-
Feelings which dormant in the soul have lain-

Let them, with all the vividness of truth,
Burst warmly forth, and thaw each icy part
Which this world's converse freezes round the heart,

Who would not on such glorious morn rejoice

And feel the strength, the freshness of the scene Gladdening their spirit? But, ev'n now a voice

Of lamentation sounds. Yes, there has been
A mourner here; mixed with the early dew,
Tears, tears are glistening in the sunshine too.
And they have fallen from eyes which oft have wept,

But never in such bitterness before;
A wanderer seems she ; in her hand is kept

Another's closely clasp'd, while o'er and o'er
The boy looks shuddering up, as if to read
Er'n in her tears the doom so dire decreed.
And there is one who, fixed as in a trance,

Follows each movement of that sorrowing pairWhose aged eye is strained to catch the glance,

The last, long, lingering glance of mute despairWhose groans are echoing every footstep's fall Of those he longs, yet dares not to recall. But now, ev'n now, the sun his mid-day seat

Ascends with all the glow of torrid fire ;
Struck by his fervid beams of withering heat,

The herbage droops, the tender flowers expire.
Alas! by Hagar's side a flower as fair
Is drooping too, despite of all her care.
Spent is the water ; sparingly and slow

Drain'd drop by drop; his gift, who dared no more Of earthly sustenance on those bestow,

So fondly cherished and sustained before. Now, must she, from Beersheba’s desert wild, Demand, in vain, refreshment for her child ! No gushing fountain gems those arid plains ;

No Elim palm-trees offer shelter there; Throughout the waste a heavy silence reigns,

And the hot simoon taints the baleful air. She feels its influence through each trembling limb, But heeds it not~her thoughts absorbed in him. From out th' exhausted flask she drains the last

One drop, to cool his burning lip and brow;
Herself, upon the ground despairing cast

Hangs o'er her boy, in languor prostrate now;
While, like a broken lily, faint and weak,
Upon his shoulder drops his pallid cheek.



And swiftly she unbinds her raven hair

To shield him from the fierce sun's scorching ray; Loosened her veil, she fans, with jealous care, Each noisome insect from his face

away. And lays the fair curl'd head upon her knee, Watching his breathing-oh! how anxiously! Vain every effort-vain her burning tears

To moisten his parch'd skin. She looks around For hope, for succour.

Alas! none appears. One little shrub her searching eye has found In the far distance; it is reached at last,

And 'neath its shade her dying child is cast. A moment she stoops o'er him—can it be?

So lately full of life, and joy, and power ! Are those the drops of mortal agony ?-

This the convulsion of his parting hour? Shuddering she turns-she will not, dare not stay

To witness all she loved thus pass away.

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She ceased—but ceased not with her words the tears

Which gush in torrents from her breaking heart, Rent by convulsive sobs, her breast appears,

As from the dying boy she sat apart; Nor raised her head, lest, piercing as a lance, The last death-struggle sore should meet her glance. But when on earth, by tempests fiercely driven,

The clouds of fate across our path are borne,
Then wakes the watchful Providence of heaven

A pitying eye looks down on her forlorn-
A voice of comfort speaks—“Rise, Hagar, rise,
And Ishmael yet shall bless thy longing eyes.
- Take him once more within a parent's hand,

Lift him from off the hard, unpitying ground;
For God has heard the lad. At his command

The waters gush from stony rocks around:
Yet will I bless him for his father's sake,

And of his seed a mighty nation make.”
And now her sight is cleared-amazed she spies

A fountain opened in the desert plain,
And crystal waters sparkling. Quick she flies

To dip the flask; replenish it again
How joyfully! from heaven's provided spring,
And sweet refreshment to her child to bring.

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