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“and I honor you for respecting it; but I think it makes a difference where and in what company you take it. I should not be willing for George to go into bar-room company with dissipated young men, and call for wine, but at home in a family circle it is different. A moderate use of wine never hurts any one.

It is only when carried to excess that it is injurious. You had better drink yours. So little as that will never hurt.”

Jessie was sitting by Alfred. She took up the glass he had set upon the table and gave it to him with a charming einile.

Again he took the goblet in his hand. The glowing wine was tempting but the faces around him were more tempting still. He raised it toward his lips. But at that moment there arose up before him a pale, sweet face, with pleading eyes-the sweet face of his mother in heaven. The boy laid down the glass with a firm hand and with a firm tone said,

“I cannot drink it. It was my mother's dying request that I should never taste of wine, and if I disregard it now I fear greater temptations will follow. You must pardon my seeming discourtesy, but I cannot drink it.” •

A silence fell upon the little circle. No one spoke for sereral minutes. Then Mrs. Warren said, in a voice choked with emotion: “Forgive me, my boy, for tempting you to violate your conscience. Would that all young men would show as high sense of duty."

Every one of the family put down their wine untasted.

“The boy is right,” said Mr. Warren. Drinking wine leads to deeper potations. We have done wrong in setting such an example before our children. “Here Ellen," he called to the servant,“ take away this decanter.”

And as the table was cleared of the wine and glasses, Mr. Warren said, solemnly, “ Now here, in the presence of all, I make a solemn vow never to have any more wine on my table, or drink it myself as a beverage; and may my influence and precepts be as binding on my children as the request of this boy's mother to him."

And Mrs. Warren softly responded, "Amen.”

Mr. Warren turned to Alfred. “We are not drunkards nor wine bibbers here, my boy. I have always preached temperance to my children but I have never realized before how an occasional glass of wine, if partaken of in good society, could injure. I see it now. If a person can drink one glass, he can drink another, and yet another, and it is hard to know just where to draw the line. I thank you for this lesson. I will show that I have as much manliness as a mere boy. My children will follow my example and pledge to abstain totally from wine as a beverage.”.

“We will, father," was the response.

The pledge was never broken by any of the funily, and never did Alfred Harris have cause to regret that he resisted the temptation to drink one glass of wine. Years afterward, when he was a prosperous and worthy merchant, and sweet Jessie Warren was his wife, they often spoke of the consequences which might have followed had he yielded to that one temptation; and Jessie tries to impress as firm principles upon the minds of her children as her husband's mother instilled into the heart of her boy.


Have you heard the story of Deacon Brown-
How he came near losing his saintly crown
By uttering language so profane?
But it wasn't his fault, as I maintain;
Listen, Maria, and you will see
How it might have happened to you or me.
A worthy man was Deacon Brown
As ever lived in Clovertown;
Bland of manner and soft of speech,
With a smile for all and a word for each.
“There's odds in deacons," as I've heard tell;
But one who has known him for quite a spell
Has often told me that Brown stood well,
Not only in church, but among his neighbors,
Esteemed and loved for his life and labors.
Not a man in the town at Brown would frown,
There wasn't a stain on his fair renown;
His soul was white though his name was Brown.
One morning the deacon started down
To purchase some goods at the store in town-
Sugar and salt, and a calico gown,
And a pair of shoes for the youngest Brown,

And other things which he noted down,-
A good provider was Deacon Brown.
His guileless heart was light as a feather,
As lie vode along in the sweet May weather,
Till he came at length to the garden gate
Of the widow Simpson, and there did wait
For a moment's chat with the pious dame
Who, years agone, was the deacon's flame.
The widow Simpson was meek and mild,
With a heart as pure as an innocent child.
She dwelt in a cottage, small and neat,
A little way back from the village street;
And now, in sun-bonnet, with trowel in hand,
She was tickling the soil of her garden land.

The widow looked up and said, “Du tell!
Is that you, Deacon? I hope you're well.”
. And the deacon replied to the gentle dame:

Quite well, I thank you; I hope you're the same."
Then they talked of the crops and the late spring storms,
Of the sparrowgrass and the currant worms;
And she asked the deacon what she should do
For the varmints that riddled her bushes through.
The deacon scratching his head, said, “Well,
If I were you I would give them hel--"
He bore too hard on the fence as he spoke,
When suddenly, swiftly, down it broke;
And prostrate there at the widow's feet,
Lay the fence, and the deacon pale as a sheet!
The deacon's pride was sadly humbled;
His teeth dropped out and he wildly mumbled,
As blindly there in the dirt he furnbled;
And the widow's faith as suddenly crumbled
When she found how her good friend Brown had stumbled,
And her beautiful fence to the ground had tumbled;
While it seemed to her that an earthquake rumbled;
In fact, as you see, things were generally jumbled.
The widow turned pale, and well she might,
As she looked at the ruin with womanly fright;
But her pious soul was shocked still more,
As she thought 'twas an oath the deacon swore.
The deacon, too, in his grief intense,
Was afraid he had given the widow offense.
lle looked around in a vague surprise,
While he tried to dam the tears that would rise
(Of pain and shame) in his dust-filled eyes.

But when he recovered his teeth and sense
He borrowed a hammer and fixed the fence,
And endeavored with meekness to explain
His late remark, which was cut in twain
By the fall of the fence and his sad refrain;
No man could say he ever swore!
He was only speaking of hellebore,
A drug she could buy at what's-his-name's store,
To kill the bugs which her bushes bore.
I cannot tell all that the deacon said,
But he started for home with an aching head,
And a heavy heart that could not rest;
For a guilty feeling was in his breast
Which he couldn't get out, though he tried his best.
And the widow, she was ill at ease,
In spite of the deacon's apologies.
She left the garden, went up the stair,
Threw herself into her rocking chair,
And rocked and rocked till the soothing balm
Of the breeze and the sunshine made her calm.
Then she searched the scriptures to find a text
That would somewhat ease her mind perplext;
For her righteous soul was sorely vext,
And she wondered, “Whatever will happen next!"
And she thinks to this day, as I've heard her say,
Brown shouldn't have spoken in just that way.
But as for myself, I question whether,
If he'd just put his syllables nearer together,
There had been the least trouble or scandal- but then,
Such mistakes will occur with the wisest of men.
In viewing such things with our moral eyes,
There's a tendency, always, to moralize;
And this is the moral I offer for all :
When you think you are standing take heed lest you fall:

THE LAST BANQUET.-EDWARD RENAUD. The incident narrated in this poem is based on fact, a tragedy of the kind hring reported to have occurred, during the French Revolution in 1793, in the north of France. Gitaut, the Norman marquis, sat in his banquet hall, When the shafts of the autumn sunshine gilded the castle wall; While in thro' the open windows floated the sweet perfume, Borne in from the stately garden and filling the lofty room; And still, like a strain of music breathed in an undertone, The ripple of running water rose, with its sob and moan, From the river, swift and narrow, far down in the vale below, That shone like a silver arrow shot from a bended bow.

Yonder, over the poplars, lapped in the mellow haze,
Uy the roofs of the teeming city, red in the noonday blaze;
While ever, in mufled music, the tall cathedral towers
Told to the panting people the story of the hours.
His was a cruel temper; under his baneful sway,
l'escunt and maid and matron fled from his headlong way,
When down from his rocky eyrie, spurring his foaming steed,
Galloped the haughty noble, ripe for some evil deed.
But when the surging thousands, bleeding at every pore,
Roused by the wrongs of ages, rose with a mighty roar-
Ever the streets of cities rang with a voice long mute;
Gibbet and tree and lunterne bearing their bleeding fruit.
Only one touch of feeling-hid from the world apart,
Locked with the key of silence--lived in that cruel heart;
Forone he had loved and worshiped, dead in the days of yora
Now slept in the lonely chapel, hard by the river shore.
High on a painted panel, set in a gilded shrine,
Shone her benignant features, lit with a smile divine;
Under the high, straight forehead, eyes of the brightest blue,
Framed in her hair's bright masses, rivaled the sapphire's hue.

Why do you come, Breconi?” —" Marquis, you did not call; But Mignonne is waiting yonder, down by the castle wall.” “ Bid her begone!”—“ But master-poor child, she loves you so ! And, broken with bitter weeping, she told me a tale of woe. "She says there is wild work yonder, there in the hated town, Where the crowd of frenzied people are shooting the nobles

down; And to-night, ere the moon has risen, they come, with burn

ing brand, With the flame of the blazing castle to light the lurid land. “But first you must spread the banquet-host for the crew

abhorred-Ere out from the topmost turret they fling my murdered lord. Flee for thy life, Lord Marquis, flee from a frightful doom, When the night has hid the postern safe in its friendly gloom!" “Tush! are you mad, Breconi? spread them the banquet here, With flowers and fruits and viands, silver and crystal clear; Let not a touch be wanting-hasten those hands of thine! Haste to the task, Breconi- and I will draw the wine!" Slowly the sun went westward, till all the city's spires Flamed in the flood of splendor--a hundred flickering fires. Over the peaceful landscape, clasped by the girdling stream, Quivered, in mournful glory, the last expiring beam.

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