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DIVI

A COLLECTION

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES

FOPv

DIVISIONS OF SONS, GOOD TEMPLAR LODGES,

SECTIONS OF CADETS, BANDS OF HOPE, AND
OTHER TEMPERANCE SOCIETIES.

^ COMPILED BY

S. T. HAMMOND, D.G.W.C.T.

OTTAWA:
PUBLISHED BY S. T. HAMMOND.

HUXTER, ROSE k COMPAXY, PRINTERS.

;

1809.

"is'^^'iimtm^mmm

*'s^r

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

irry no Man if ho Drinks 1

Parting in Life 2()

Imbition «j^^

lis of Dram-drinking 3t)

[hoosing a Trade 40

le Schoolmaster Abroad 45

toderation ; or I can Take It or Leave It Alone 49

debates of Conscience with a Distiller, a Wholesale Dealer

and a Retailer 54

?he Drunkard's Daughter 70

^hite Lies 75

['he Trial of Alcohol 78

Plea for the Pledge 83

'he Try Company 87

[y Mother's Gold Ring T. . . . . . 9B

?he Virtues 105

'he Old Lady's Will 109

-«W'

i ^

|l ' P ♦

|j '

■»tf

■i

.;.',•»

^tmptxancc Maio^ixts.

MAREY NO MAN IF HE DRINKS

OR,

Laura's plan and how it succeeded.

DRAMATIS PERSONif:.

|rRA Bell A R^faBtoer*

{fliE Gray, i Laura's #r5endfl.

BTTiE Ellis, )
>RRis Hall, ^

ILL. Bdrnside, > Admirers of these Ladies^

ID. AlleN; j

— — — *

:, SCENE I.

■Parlor. — Laura sitting hy a tahh, her head resting on
\ her hand, as if in deep thought; Nettie sewing;
§(^ Su HIE reading, AH silent for a few moments.

Laura. — [^Raising her head and speaking with em-
iasis.'\ I have it, girls ! I have it !
j Susie. — [Jumps.'] Oh, my ! how you have startled
le ! What have you got, Laura — a fit ?
Laura. — No — an idea, and a plan.
Nettie. — Wonderful !
Susie. — Astonishing I
Nettie. — Shall we be honored with the development

2 TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

of this brilliaat inspiration ? or is it too profound for out
untaught minds to comprehend ? *

Laura. — Now, girls, do be serious, for I am in sobei
earnest, and what I wish to say is the result of long an^
anxious thought.

Susie.— Mercy on me, how solemn I but, as the
«ay in meeting — " Sister Bell will please proceed.'
^Closes her hook.'} Put away your sewing, Nettie. Now
Laura, you have our profound attention.

Laura. — Very well. Now assist me, if you please, tc
call to mind the young men of our immediate circle oi
acquaintance who use intoxicating liquors; also thos«
who use tobacco.

Susie. — Oh ! I like to talk about the beaux. I caught
two splendid ones at the skating park last night — but I
forgot — we're to be serious. [Puts on a long face.']

Laura. — Let me see. There's George Boswell —
smokes. Ed. Stacy — smokes, chews, and drinks oc-
casionally.

Nettie. — John West — does he smoke ? yes, and drinks
too.

Laura.— Will. Burnside

^SusiE. — Oh, Laura, that's Nettie's devoted aitnirer j
you^d best not discuss him in her presence.

Nettie. — What a fib, Susie ! Go on, Laura.

Laura. — Will. Burnside takes his social glass. 1 don't
think he uses tobacco in any form.

Nettie. — Robert Baker and Arthur Wool both drink
occasionally, and Morris Hall

Susie. — \_Clapping her hands,] Oho, Miss Laura!
he's ^o?<;' beau ; and he smokes, because I met him yes-
terday with a meerschaum in his mouth nearly a yard
long. And ho loves his wine, too, for I have seen him
drink it.

Laura. — [Emharrassed.] Very well; who else ? but
I think the list is sufl&ciently long for the present.

Susie. — [Poutrng.] I'd thank you not to slight my
Fred; he's the best-looking man of the whole lot.

Cllel

Mei

ft
till

-••rJifc.* -*••

m^^'

MARRY NO MAN IV HE DRINKS.

'ound for our

am in sobei
of loDg an'

but, as the
e proceed.'
Nettie. Now

ou please, U
ate circle ol
also thosf

X. I caught
ight— but I

Boswell—
drinks oc-

; and drinkj

i admirer ;

iss, I don't

both drink

is3 Laura !
Dt him yes-
rly a yard
) seen him

' else ? but
mt.

slight my
lot.

SNettie. — Really you must pardon the omigaion, Susie;
as uniatentional. Fred. Allen smokes, chews, drinks.

Laura. — These young men are, without exception,
fllentcd, educated, and move in the highest circle of
iteiety ; several are professors of religion, and yet all are
addicted to habits which, unless abandoned, will make
sUves of them. The use of tobacco injures and debases
ft man physically, mentally, and morally, and I am sus-
liincd in this assertion by the most eminent and learned
lHjsiciaDs.

IjNettie. — Why, Laura, what has induced you to think
iid speak so earnestly in regard to this subject ?

Laura. — I will tell you. On New Year's, a majority
of the young men whose names have been mentioned,
mdc the usual calls during the day. Some were chew-
ing gum or anise-seed to disguise the odor of the cigars
nikich mere only laid aside at the door. Some paid two
^ three visits to the spittoon during a brief call of ten
miinutes ; and, worse than all, the mingled fumes of the
ipfferent liquors which many of them had imbibed at the
(puses of the numerous friends whom they had visited,
iicmed more strongly suggestive of a bar-room than a
lady's parlor. Not one of them, I suppose, has ever been
Intoxicated, or has caused his friends any anxiety by this
T0ry moderate, temperate use of spirituous liquors ; but I
•dntend that they are all in imminent danger, for this
fipsidious appetite will increase and become more and
<iore powerful, until its victims are drawn down into a

trtex of degradation and shame, bringing ruin upon
emselvcs, and sorrow and misery to kindred and
lltiends.

Susie. -^Nonsense, Laura ! jou have suddenly turned

wreacher, and are trying to make out innocent things to

Jle great sins as black as crows. Some of the very nicest,

dsomest young men I know — real tip-top fellows —

oke and chew, and sometimes take a glass of something

drink ; and I don't «ee that it harms them. Of course

TEM^ERA^'CE DlALOCJUEfcl.

li!

they know when to stop. I wouldn't give a straw for a
man who hasn't a will of his own ; it's only weak-minded,
»oft-pated men who get drunk.

Nettie. — Laura, 1 am truly glad you have introduced
this important subject; I heartily coincide with everj
sentiment you have uttered, and will join you in any plan
you may suggest, that will enable us to do what little wo
can towards eradicating the evils we have been discussini:
— especially this moderate drinking.

Susie. — For shame, Nattie ! you have left me the
alternative of retreating ignominiously, unless I should be
brave enough to maintain the field against you both, and
then I'm afraid I should bo ingloriously defeated ; 1
think I'll neither run nor surrender just yet, however.
As to the assertion, that the use of tobacco is injurious,
I'll not attempt to refute that at present, for I am such an
ignorant little goosie, I should only make sport for you
two learned ladies. But what is there so extremely
filthy and disagreeable about it? Some people rather
like the smell of a good cigar; as for myself, I never
spent a thought on the subject.

Laura.^— How often do you walk down the street
without being half blinded and choked by the clouds of
smoke that float back from almost every passing mascu-
line ? and does not every smoker carry about with him a
stale, sickening, intolerable odor that pervades his clothes,
his breath, and even his whiskers and hair ? As for
chewing, I repeat that it is a filthy, disgusting habit.
You know well enough that you cannot go a block with-
out having to gather up your skirts and hop over the
streams and puddles of tobacco juice deposited there by
these '' tip-top " lords of creation. In publfc halls, in
street cars, and even on the steps and in the vestibules
of churches, the same nuisance abounds, for no place is
too sacred to escape its unclean presence. To put the
question right home — what man would live with a wife
who, when greeting him fondly on»his daily return home,

I straw for a
eak-mioded.

) introduced

with everj

io any plan

bat little we

Q discussinsj

eft me the
I should be
>u both, and
defeated ; 1
it, however,
is injurious,
am such an
►ort for you
extremely
)ple rather
If, I nevei

the street
e clouds ol
sing mascu-
with him a
his clothes,

? As for

ing habit,
block with-
p over the
d there by
halls, in
) vestibules
no place is

put the
viih a wife
;urQ home,

MAT?KY NO MAN IF UK niUVTC>«.

#Ould put up her mouth to be kissed, m ith the stain.s of
Hbacco juice on her lip.^ and a quid tucked aw:;y in her
•heek ? or who would sit on his knco and putfaway at a
•Iron^ cigar or monstrous meerschaum ? >\'ould he not
Itrn from her with unspeakable di.^gu.st ? and yet women
iff compelled to submit to these abominable, loathsome
thing.s without murmuring.

Susie. — You've extinguished me entirely, Laura ; I
nnist admit that tobacco is not such a nice thing, after all.
But now about the harmless glass that some of our young
Alends take now and then. I am confident not one of
ttiem would ever be seen at the bar of a restaurant or
drinking saloon. Only drunkards, and thos3 who are
biwoming so, will be found at such places — men who
bare lost all sejf- respect.

Laura. — But what sends the drunkards to these places,
•i^eoially those whom you denominate as just ^' becomimj
dtunkards ?" Is not the appetite formed by the '^ harm-
Mis glass " that they speak of so lightly, that is passed
iiUnd at social parties, receptions, and weddings, until
liie desire for strong drink increases, and they then resort
Id restaurants and saloons ?

Nettie. — Really, Laura, I view this subject in a dif-
Affent light altogether. You have given me some ideas
that I shall not soon forget. But what is to be done '/
wliat can be done 't

Susie. — That's the question. I admit all that Laura
Ins said, but what is the use of groaning about a state of
itairs that can't be changed? '^what is to be, icUl be;"
tiiat's my belief, so let's stop this long talk and go out
m a walk.

ifNETTiE. — Not yet, Susie. I think Laura may suggest

liplan by which we can accomplish something.

pSusiE.— Oh, you stupid, tiresome old fogies ! well I

■i|>posc I must be resigned. [Puts on a comical air of

fpig nation']

|Lauea. — Yes, we can accomplish something. It is

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

part of woman's mission to refine the minds and elevate
and improve the morals of men. We have a broad field
before us ; let us begin from this day to exert an influence
upon our male friends whitih will result in their attaining
to a higher standard of moral excellence. Let us tel
them that true manliness will not be fettered by the
chains of unhallowed appetite, but will struggle against
temptation, and rise above all habits and practices incoo
sistent with manly dignity and genuine nobility oi
character.

Susie. — You surely don't mean that we are to rcsoh;
ourselves into a Total Abstinence and Anti-Tobacco So
ciety, for the purpose of delivering lectures to all th*
good-looking young men we know, whenever an oppor
tunity offers, do you ? ^

Nettie. — [ With animation.'] Yes, that's the ver}
idea ! I fully agree with Laura, that it is incumbent
upon us to exert our influence in behalf of the mora!
reformation of those around us j to speak warning words
to those who are thoughtlessly dallying with temptation,
seemingly unconscious of the dangers before them.

Laura: — I'm glad, Nettie, to have gained so valuable
an ally. Perhaps you and Susie will term me a radical,
when I here announce my firm determination to accept
neither the general nor special attentions of any gentle-
man who, after having the subject fully presented for his
consideration, continues to smoke, chew, or drink. If he
likes tobacco or liquor more than me, he can have the
benefit of the preference.

Nettie. — Bravo, Laura! that pleases me immecsely.
I'm with you heart and hand,

SvsiE. — Bah ! tell that to the marines. You'll botl
sing a difierent tune when certain young cavaliers that I
know, happen to ** pop the question j" and judging by
their increasing devotion, that event is not far in the
future. Then we'll see what your heroic resolutions
amount to.

¥f

MARiiY NO MAN IF HE DRINKS.

3 and elevat(
a broad field
I an influence
eir attainioc

Let us tel
3red by the
iggle agains:
ctices incoD

nobility ot

re to rcsohj
lobacco So'
s to all thf
r an oppor

s the ver}
I incumbeot
E* the moral
rning words
temptation
tiem.

so valuable
le a radical,
n to accept
any gentle-
3 ted for his
nk. If he
n have the

immeosely.

You'll botl
Hers that I
udging by
far in the
resolutions

n^£TTiE. — We say what we mean, and mean what wc

S, To the question-popping part of your remark, I will
y reply that if Fred. Allen does not propose before a
y$lllfik has passed, I shall be much surprised.

Susie. —[/SSprtn^Vn^ up hastily.] There ! Fred, is to
eiil for me at four o'clock to go to the picture gallery.
ail4 I had forgotten entirely. I shall not be ready m
tttie, I know. [^Uurries out.']

^AURA. — What a careless, thoughtless creature I [A
fOp. Laura g^es to the door and receives a letter. Ex--
til$im€s the address and delivers it to Nettie.] Some-
^g for you, Nettie.

Nettie. — [_Opens letter; reads a few lines, and seem^
miicA agitated."] Excuse me, Laura ; I will retire to my
room to read and reply to this communication.

Laura. — Certainly, Nettie. [N. retires.] That wasi
Will. Burnside's writing, and from Nettie's agitation, I
l^uld judge it to be a proposal. Her newly-formed
fiwlution will now be tested, for Will, loves the sparkliDf;^
ipie. Suppose /should be called to decide this important
^estion, would my courage waver ? If ever man loved
woman, Morris Hall loves me, though he has never
rwealed it in words. How generous and kind hearted^
how noble and unselfish he is I— and yet he is a moderate
^nker, and smokes to excess. [A rap. She admits
Feed; Allen.] Good-day, Mr. Allen ; be seated.

Allen. — Thank you. Is Miss Susie ready ? [Takes

itfmething from his vest pocket and puts it in his m^uih.]

i Laura. — She will be down in a few minutes. Excuse

lie, Mr. Allen, but I have some curiosity to know what

j^u are chewing.

?p Allen. — Well — you know. Miss Laura — that is— the
§»t is, we young men indulge in smoking occasionally,
Iffd it is deemed polite and desira^ble to use something
Ijiiich — you understand, Miss Laura — which —
^ Laura. — How can I understand unless you explain.
§ Allen. — Well, then, it is desirable to use something

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

-' ^X

to disguise the odor that a cigar aaavoidably leaves on the
breath. But, really, as ladies are not supposed to take an
interest in such things, you embarrassed me somewhat. I
have in my mouth at present some aromatic seed ; the
name I da not remember.

Laura. — Why render the necessary to deodorize the
breath before going into ladies' society ? Is smoking
essential to health or happiness, and does it

SUBIE. — {^Appears attired for the street, drawing on
her gloves."] How do you do, Fred.? Sorry I've kept
you waiting; Laura and Nettie have been discussing
tobacco and moderate drinking, and in listening to their
learned disquisitions I almost forgot our engagement
for this evening. If you wish to keep in their good
graces, never allow another atom of tobacco, or a drop
of anything stronger than cofifeci to touch your lips.
Come, I'm ready.

Allen. — [^Rising.'] Miss Laura had just opened her
batteries upon mo when you entered.

Laura.— -I hope Susie will keep up a constant fire
upon the enemy's works ; or, to speak seriously, convince
you that the use of tobacco and stimulants is unnecessary,
undignified, and injurious. »

Susie. — ^No, indeed! I can't talk scientifically and
philosophically, and all that sort of thing, like you can,
consequently the effect of my argument, even if I could
produce any, would be lost. Come on Fred. {_A8 they
Icavey they are met hy MoRRXS Hall, with whom they all
exchange merry greetings.]

M0RRI8. — I am happy to meet you alone, Laura, as
important business calls me away to-morrow to be absent
a month, and before leaving, I desire to speak to you on
a subject which deeply affects my present and future
happiness. {Draws his seat near and takes her hand.]
You cannot be ignorant of the fact, that for months past
my feeling towards your have been deeper and warmer
than those of friendship, and 'the encouragement and

** Ml

ives on the

to take an

Qewhat. I

seed; the

idorize the
I smokiDg

rawing on
I've kept
discussing
g to their
igagement
heir good
)r a drop
rour lips.

►ened her

stant fire
convince
ecessary,

ally and
you can,

I could
{^As they

they all

laura, as
e absent

you on
1 future

hand.']
ths past

warmer
!nt and

MARRY NO MAN IF HE DRINKS.

our I have *eceived have induced the flattering belief
you do not coQsider me altogether unworthy of your
_,^ard. You know that I am a man of plain speech and
iSt wards. I can only say, dear Laura, 1 love you ! will
^u be my wife ?

;^Laura.— [i/iicA embarrassed.'] Morris, you have
tiiien me by storm; this is a serious subject. I must
live time to think.

^Morris. — Time to think ! Do you* not sufficiently
#|d^jrstand the feelings of your heart to answer me now ?
i$ib know not what may transpire ere we meet again ; do
iit send me on my journey without the promise of your
liro to cheer me during my absence.
4IIiAUBA. — Morris, I will speak frankly. No other hks
Will so high a place in my regard as yourself, and I will
0fi|ifes8 that the words you have uttered meet a ready
iHpoDse from my heart ; but before I can give you the
MBurance you desire, certain conditions must be complied
fith.

-Morris. — \^Throwing his arm a^osa the hack of her
i|n^] Name them, dearest ; I know you are too good and

£ie, to exact anything unworthy or impossible, and the
ticipated reward will lighten the most arduous task.

Laura. — It is no task, Morris, only a simple act of
i^f-denial. You must, from this hour, abstain entirely
from the use of tobacco and all intoxicating drinks.

Morris. — [Drops her hand and starts hack.] Laura,
you astonish me ! You know that for years I have been
Hloustomed to smoking ; and though it hasbeen six months
Ifkice I began to use wine and other light stimulants,
itore as a social custom, His true, than because I desired
Ibem, yet you have never manifested the slightest disap-
|tobation, but have, on more than one occasion, sipped

f^ne yourself Why, then, this sudden opposition to
ese harmless indulgences ?
Laura. — I acknowledge with shame and sorrow that
m have but recently awakened to a sense of the duty I

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES,

owe to God and my fellow-creatures. But I haye resolves
that my future course shall, as far as possible, atooe fo;
the past. I shall exert all my influence to induce tLt
young men with whom I associate, to relinquish all un
manly^ demoralizing habits, especially that of indulging
the appetite for this social glass, which if continued
inevitably leads to the drunkard's awful fate.

Morris. — But there can be no possible danger for me
there is not a habit to which I am addicted that I cannc
at any time abandon without difficulty. I do not thinl
that I smoke enough to be injurious to myself or un
pleasant to others ; and as for drinking to excess — tha
can never be, for to mo there can be no more disgracefu
and disgusting object than a drunken man. A well
balanced mind and a proper degree of self-respect wii
prevent any man from thus degrading himself.

Laura. — Excuse my plain speaking, Morris, but thf
odor of cigar smoke that hovers about you at this momcc;
is decidedly difio^reeable. I assert, moreover, that the
wavering, unsettled mind, the want of self respect, anii
the blunting, defdening of the sensibilities invariablj
follow the continued use of alcoholic drinks, and are the
results of drinking, not the causes. {^Pauses a moment]
I have firmly resolved that I will marry no man wh(
yields to the tempter, even to the smallest extent ; and
more than that, the signatiyre of my future husband mus:
be attached to the Pledge of Total Abstinence.

Morris. — Laura, you aie surely jesting ! I cannot bt
bound by pledges and promises — they are for drunkards,
not sober men ; it would be betraying a want of confidence
in my own moral firmness, integrity, and stability. B
not make this a test of my love, dear Laura. lAgan
takes her hand,"]

Laura. — [<Sac?/y, hut firmly,'] Then, Morris, you can
never be more to me than at present. I have witnesse<i
too much sorrow and suffering caused by the in temper
ance of men who once drank no more than you do. evei

! i

ave resolve^,
le, atone fc!
indace ih
)uish all un
if indulgiof
[ continued

iger for me
bat I cannc
io not thinl
yself or un
jxcess — tha
disgracefu
n. A well
-respect wil

r. ■

rris, but the
this momcDi
er, that tht
respect, anii

invariablj
and are tlii
a moment.]

man whc
ztent ; and
sband mus:

•

I cannot be
drunkards
f confidence
ibility. Ei
a. [^Agah

ris, you can
e witnesseo
e intemper
ou do. eve!

MARRY NO MAN IF HE DRINKS.

unite my destiny with that of any but a pledged
:otaler.

loRRis.— Oh, Laura ! how can you thus cruelly blight
happiness of one who loves you so fondly ? will you not
nt ? ^

ILiAURA. — Morris, my decision is irrevocable ! [^TaJces
his hat and rushes out.'] So — " the dream is past."
could not bear the test. Oh, Morris ! you have left
b«jMD<l you a sad; aching heart, whose love is yours alone.
l^overs her face with her hands^ and sighs."]

Susie. — [Having returned from her iL-aHcJ] I say,
I^fbra, what on earth have you been doing to Morris
WtX% He rushed by me as I came in, just as though the
EtO One was after him j and though he almost upset me
in^is mad flight, not one word of apology did he oflfer.
\f% didn't know him to be jour favorite, I should think
juil had rejected him.

-^AURA. — [Raising her head."} No, Susie, he has re-
jUilcd me. I was in the balance on one side, his social
g|||8 and cigars on the other. His love for them was
i|i|>Dger than for me, consequently I am rejected.

f|PusiE. — [Raising her hands with astonishment.'] Well,
Iiijlra Bell I so you have been absolutely reducing your
lii([|h-flown theory to practice, and have lost the handsomest
matf (but one) in town. You are decidedly the most
Qii9iitigated goosie I ever saw ! Well, '< what is to be,
wiB be," I suppose. But, Laura, Til tell you a little secret
t]^ will help to cheer up your spirits. Fred, and I are
' — actually engaged^ and the day appointed. Isn't
nice?

AURA. — And did you say anything to him on this
rtant subject, Susie ?

usiE. — Not L I was so fluttered and agitated, I

fo^ot it entirely; and I'm glad I did, for Fred, might

e run off in a crazy way like Morris Hall, and then I

Id be in the same sad, forlorn condition in which I

poor you. Not exactly though. I should have run

(

ass

l)i

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

after him and told him he might keep all his pet habits-
that I was only joking ; and I expect you wish you h
done so, don't you Laura ?

Laura — No. I do not regret what I have done. !
he loves his *' pet habits," as you call them, more than \
loves me, he is not worthy of me.

Susie.— Well, I believe Fred, would do anything;
give up anything I should request of him. He'll make
model husband. [^Goes out singing j and Nettie enk
loith an open letter in her hand.']

Nettie. — I presume, Laura, you know from whence tb;
letter came 'i

Laura. — I do. And from your agitation, I conje:
tured its contents.

Nettie. — I confess candidly, Laura, that it contains
manly declaration of love and offer of marriage. You ai
aware that Will. Burnside has been my constant attendao
for thee years, and during that time I have never know:
him to commit a mean or dishonorable act. Had thii
arrived one day earlier, I should have returned to hie
the unhesitating acceptance my heart would have s;
earnestly dictated. But our conversation this mornio:
has materially changed my views in regard to certaic
things, and in my reply, which I dispatched some timi
ago, I acquainted him with the convictions of duty lateh
aroused in my mind, and stated my]deter) lination to marn
no man addicted to the use of strong drink, as I shouk
constantly be haunted with the fear of becoming tha
most wretched of beings — a drunkard's wife. I am sure
Laura, that you commend my decision.

Lauba. — I do, most heartily. It is tbe-only saf
course. During your absencqfj I have had an interview
with Morris Hall, who, being compelled to leave town to
morrow, desires an answer to a certain important question
My reply was, la substance, the same as yours to Mi
Burnside ; and iltough I reasoned with him long am
earnestly, his pride could not tolerate the idea of beio;

''it

MARRY NO MAN IF HE DRINKt

pet habits-
ish you hi

kve done. I
nore than I

anything :
He'll make
ETTIE enk

a whence tli;

>n, I

conj e:

it contains
56. You ai
mt attendao
never know
;. Had thii
rned to bin
lid have ;;
his mornio:
1 to certaii
id some timi
i" duty lateli
ion to marr;
, as I shoul<:
eoming tha
I am sure

e-only saf
m interview
ive town to
mt question
rours to Mr
long aDc
ca of beio;

Mind by pledge ; finally, he left in anger ; and though
Illould not reverse my decision, still I feel very sad, for
Mirris has won a place in my heart which no other «oan

•1^ fill.

IffBTTiE. — Accept my sincere sympathy, dear friend,
and let me cheer ^^u with the thought that a little re-
fleolion on his part will bring him to your side again.
Ailfl DOW a word in reference to our conversation of this
morning. If we entend to carry out our proposed plan,
wcmust have a book prepared for the signatures of all
gtl^emen whom we can impress with the importance of
Uli|^ course. /

IBaura. — I think I have one that will suit our purpose
•a^irably. [£^jV.]

JBdbnside. — [Enters with eager liaste^ advances to^ET-
TVf^u>ho IS still standing J and clasps her hands lovingly.']
BliipDg Nettie, I have just received your note, and could

a resist the impulse to come to you immediately. Did
dream for an instant that I would let any foolish habit
rpose and obstacle between me and your precious self ?
£h|:aearest ; I will gladly submit to your very reasonable
recrements, and the more willingly, because I have
nqnblf been in serioxis doubt as to the safety of this social
drinking custom. It only needed your sweet, womanly
arginuent to establish my convictions firmly. {^Laura
eniefs unobserved.'} And now this little hand is mine.
[JTtliies it.}
jiglURA. — Ahem ! [Coughs.']

^R^isiDE.-'lStarting.] Why, Miss Laura, you en-
so much as a spirit, that your suddenly revealed
nee startled me. *

XJRA. — [Roguishly.] Spirits donH wear high-heeled
^aiiirs, and cough to attract the attention of mortals, Mr.
side. Nettie, I find that the book I referred to has
used for another purpose, and we have no other that
nswer.
lURNsiDE. — There is a bookstore at the corner, ladies;
11 be happy to supply any want.

TEMPERANCE DIALOOUES.

Laura. — We accept your offer with thanks, and de.
legate you to procure for us a small hlank book, in whicl
wo propose to write a Pledge.

BuRNSiDE. — I will return in a few moments. [Exit

Nettie. — And I will get the pen and ink. lExit."]

Laura. — [SeatiHf/ herself in ancdtitude of sadness an
despondency.] Nettie is happy ; and I must appear so
even though my heart should break in the sad struggle
[^Covers her face with her hands, and sighs.]

Morris. — [^Appears at the open door — pauses a mi>
ment — advances quickly y and dropping on one knee at h:
side,, gen tit/ removes her hands.] Dear Laura, you hav;
conquered ! Forgive the foolish pride that for a tim
obscured my sense and judgment and made me obliviou
to my own danger and heedless of your sweet warning
Since our interview, I have calmly weighed every argn
ment you advanced, and I thank you earnestly for th
frankness with which you placed the subject before me,
and the courage and firmness with which you combated m;
weak reasoning and* refused any compromise with thi-
evil. If all young ladies would pursue the same course
there would be fewer drunkards, and consequently les:
unhappiness and misery. Will you forgive me and be m
own Laura?

Laura. — All is forgiven, Morris j and I confess tha;
my heart feels much lighter than it did a few moment;
ago J but I hear footsteps. Oh, Morris, do get up. I:
that wild Susie Gray should catch you in this attitude
we should not escape from her saucy tongue for a month

Morris. — I don't care for Susie or any one else jur
now — I'm too happy; but to sj»are your blushes, I wil
assume a more dignified position. [^Snatches a kiss am
springs up Just as NETTiE'enters at one door and BURNSIDI
at the other. The three exchange greetings.]

BuRNSiDE. — I have obtained the desired article. IHandi
it to Laura.]

LaurA; — Thank you. Now for the Pledge. [ Writes'

MARRY NO MAN IF HE DRINKS.

ka, and de.
f, ia whicl

s. [Exit
lExit.]
sadness an
appear go
id struggle

uses a m'j-
knee at h
, you hav',
for a tim
e obliviou
5et warning
every argu
sstly for th

before me,
ombated m
5 with thi-
ame course
juently Ics:

and be m}

confess tk
w moment;
get up. I
lis attitude
)r a month
ne else ju\
shes, I wil
kiss au
BuRNsin

e. [Z7a«(ii
[ Writei]

Morris — What a moral revolution would be produced

society if other ladies would adopt and maintain the

inciples you two so firmly advocate ?

Nettie. — There is no earthly reason why it should not
be so. I am amazed and ashamed that I have lived so
llDg in ignorance of my duty in this respect.

Laura.— Attention. [/?ca<f«.l *a solemnly pledge
Mr sacred honor as a man, that I will abstain from all
Srituous and malt liquors, wine, and cider as a beverage,
£l from the use of tobacco in every form. This Pledge
II be binding for life." [Places the hook open on the
i|(/e.] This is now ready for signatures. [Fred, and
SilSIE enter quietly."]

Morris. — I am proud to affix my signature to the Life
Plldge. [SiV/ns.]

BuRNSiDE. — And I will gladly imitate your example.

Higns.']

Susie. — What wonderful progress I two converts in one

Nettie. — Will you not be the third, Mr. Allen ?
Allen. — Not at present. It will be time enough when
I feel that I need the restraining influence of the Pledge.
BuRNSiDE. — I assert positively that you need it fully
ai much as we do. Miss Susie, i/our persuasive elo-
quence might move him.

Susie. — I believe Fred, has enough pride and common
souse to keep him from indulging too freely. When I
flpB him in danger, then I'll use my '• persuasive elo-
-^"Dce," as you are pleased to term it. I think this
ing the Pledge places one in an awkward position some-
, es. Suppose you totaj abstainers should have a wedding
-**iiow don't blush, gentlemen, I'm only supposing the case
— ^ould you give your friends nothing but dry cake to
<ml ? for of course wine would be out of the question.
J[^kIoRRi3. — No. We'd both have some of the nicest
>onade in town, wouldn't we, Will. ? [SusiE and Fred.
h heartily. 2

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

1 Hi

llji I

li^

Susie. — Lemonade with wedding-c&ke ! what a fum
idea ! But to speak seriously, the Bihle recommen:
wine, though I don't recollect the exact words. Refrei
my memory, some of you.

Laura. — Who hath sorrow? who hath contentioDi
who hath wounds without cause ? They that tarry lot
at the wine ; they that seek strong drink !

BuRNSiDE. — Wine is a mocker, strong drink is ragii;
and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise !

Nettie. — Be not among winebibbers, for the druDbr
shall couie to poverty !

Morris. — Look not upon the wine when it is red, wk
it giveth its color in the cup, for at last it biteth like
serpent and stingcth like an adder !

i^The/our in concert.'] — No drunkard shall enter tl
kingdom of heaven ! [Susie and Fred, elevate their ejj
hroioSf and raise their hands as if overwhelmed hy the tei
that follow each other in quick successiouy and are utta-
with great imprcssiveness and solemnity.']

[^Curtain falls."]

SCENE IL

Laura and Nettie ; the former turning over the ha.
of the Pledge-hooJc,

Laura. — As six months have elapsed since the inaugui;
tion of our total abstinence movement, I thought 1 wou
look over our little book, and I find it contains fifty-eigi
names. We have been far more successful than I antic
pated.

Nettie. — Many of those whom we induced with gre
difl&culty to sign the Pledge were swiftly going to rui
but are now sober and prosperous. I am thankful '
have been permitted to accomplish so much. [Hall ai
BuRNSiDE cn^er, fa;cAan(7e customary greetings withi
girls, and take seats.]

'31

MARRY NO MAN IF HE DRINKS.

hat a fum
recommeD:
Is. Refrei

sontentioDi
t tarry loi

ik is rap^is;

be druDkai

is red, wlc
)itetb like

ill enter tl
ate their fy
:l hi/ the iei
(l are utter

}cr the ha.

Lbe inaugw
ight 1 wou
18 fifty-eigt
ban I antic

dwitb gre
ing to rui
thankful ^
[Hall a\
'rigs withi

MoRRifl. — I see you have the Pledge-book, Laura ; I
m think that had Fred. Allen's name been inscribed in
he might not have fallen. His boasted pride and self-
pect have not restrained bis terrible appetite for liquor,
_ he is now a common drunkard. I met his wife yeater-
^1^, and could scarcely recognize her as the saucy, light-
l^trted Susie who, six months ago, laughed at what she
90td our ** oldfogy notions.'' She has changed sadly,
•ad I have heard that Fred, is very violent and brutal
iriien intoxicated.

lusiE. — [^Enters, plainlt/ attired^ and in a state of great
ttion."] Dear Liura, will you kindly give your miser-
friend shelter for one night ?
jIiAURA. — Certainly, Susie, for as long a time as you wish
tO#»y. [^Leads her to a seat and stan.ds bj/ Aer.] May
liUquire the cause of your trouble ? You appear to be

wi|*ppy-

ipuBiE. — Tou are all old and true friends, and have,
iipitless, heard of the sad life I have led since my marriage,
i^|( will speak freely. I had not been married a week
hiftre I ascertained that my husband had, for a long timOi
h||n drinking much more freely than I or any of his
Minds had imagined ; in fact, he acknowledged that he
olwi drank in restaurants and saloons, side by side
witfi the most degraded drunkards. For two months past
htilttui scarcely been sober a day. His business is totally
nflf^oted, his money squandered among vile associates.
Tkl§ ooDstant and excessive use of liquor has transformed
into a jQend whose brutal cruelty I can no longer en-
. If you will permit me to remain here to-night, I
to-morrow return to my parents, who live in the
ooiilltry, about forty miles from this place. I left them,
ft-li^py, merry bride; I shall return, a broken-hearted,
led woman ! [^Heavy footsteps are heard approach-
and a loudj angry voice exclaims^ " Where is she ?"
[1 crouches in terror behind Lauba.]
IliLBN. — IThrows open the door violently. ffi$ /ace

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

very red ; eyes glaring with rage ; clothing torn and soiled.]
Where is my wife ? Ah, you need not try to hide, madaia
— I have found you. [^Rushes to her and grasps her arm.]
Come, march home immediately.

BuRNSiDE. — [^Grasping him by the shoulder."] Allen,
you shall not use any yiolenoe toward your wife ia our
presence. She desires to remain with Miss Bell to-night,
and I would advise you to leave the room quietly, or you
may compel us to use force.

Allen. — She shall not stay here I home's the place
for a married woman, and she shall go.

Morris. — [ Who has risen.'] The home that should be
her dearest refuge, you have converted into such a plac;
of torment that she has been compelled to flee from it
Fied. Allen, has your manhood utterly forsaken you ? Le,
your poor, persecuted wife stay where she can find res'
and peace, and go away quietly.

Allen. — Seems to me, you're interfering in what don't
concern you. Tid'nt that woman know when she married
me that I took my glass whenever I wanted it ? Don';
you remember how she laughed at you for signing the
Pledge, saying at the same time that J didnU need it f K
little persuasion from her then, would have caanged my
wild course and made me a different man, for I wouIJ
have sacrificed anything to please her ; but she didn't
think it was necessary^ aud she's got no right to complain
now.

Susie. — lie speaks the truth ! I know now, when too
late, that my own thoughtless conduct has brought this
grief upon me. When I could easily have turned him
from the path of danger, I laughed at the idea, and re-
fused to exert my influence to win him to a better life
I have carved my own destiny — and hereafter I will sul)
mit to my sad lot without murmuring.

Allen. — Now, that's more sensible. What's the use of
fretting about what you can't help, eapecially as you've
acknowledged that you brought it on yourself

id soikd]
0, madam
her arm."^

] AUcD,
[b in oui
1 to- night,

ly, or yon

the place

sJiouM li

ih a place

from it,

you ? Le
find res'

wbat don't
le married

t ? Don';
filing th«
edit^ A
iDged mj
I woulJ
ihe didn't
) complaiQ

when too
ought thi!
raed him
and re-
>etter life
will sul)'

the use of
las you've

MARRY NO MAN IF UE DRINKS.

MoRRis.—AllcD, reform— sign the Pledge and be a man

again.

Allen —No, air 1 I can't do it. Rum and the devil
have got such a strong grasp on me, that if I should try
to reform, they'd pull me back again. It's qo use, I tell
you ; as long as whiskey's made, and men licensed to sell
it, there'll bo plenty of drunkards. [ To his w»/c.] Come
along, Susan. ITakea a bottle from his pocket and goes
out drinking.']

Susie. — Laura — Nettie — I hear that you are both to
stand before the altar to-morrow night. May God grant
you a happier lot than mine ! [Goes outdowlj/y weeping.']

Nettie. — Poor Susie ! hers is Indeed a sad fate.

Morris. — I am rejoiced to know that on the occasion

of the double bridal^ which will to-morrow night crown

our foud hopes with blissful reality, there will be no

JiparkliDg ruby wine to tempt our friends to ruin and

death.

BuRNSiDE. — But as we go through life with our chosen
partners beside us — [each clasps the waist and hand of hii
intended'] — we will warn the tempted, raise the fallen, and
frighten the homes made desolate by the Demon of la-
temperance.

■ Laura. — And we will still keep our Pledge-book open,
ind continue to labor for the cause of Total Abstinence.

Nettie. — And we shall never forget to warn our lady
firiends; solemnly and earnestly

L. and N. — To marry no man if he drinks !

[Curtain falls.]

STAETING IN LIFE.

€l)aractcr0.

Mrs. Mordaunt.

Theodore.

Mrs. Mordaunt sewing.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — It is almoBt time that Theodore
was home from school. His last day ! Next week he
must start ioto a man's life^ leaving behind him these
school-hoy days that he has found so pleasant. Ah, I
hear his step!

Enter Theodore.

Theodore. — Well, mother, here I am. My school-
days are oyer at last 1

Mrs. Mordaunt. — You have had a pleasant day, I
hope?

Theodore. — Yes, the teachers were all very kind, and
gave me their best wishes for success in business-life.
•^ Mrs. Mordaunt. — Are you going out again ?

Theodore. — There is no temptation to go out. The
rain pours down in perfect torrents. We have a full
hour before dinner-time. Talk to me !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Imperative case, present tense !

Theodore. — {Bowing.) Will you graciously con-
descend to converFe with your obedient servant?

Mrs. Mordaunt.— Willingly. What shall we talk
about? • . ' .

Theodore. — About myself. Modest, am I not ? But
I would like to have a little talk about the future, and
you were always my father- confessor, you know !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Mother-oonfessor, you mean.

■V,v

STARTING IN LIFE.

Theodore. — Many a oat-killing, orchard-robbing, sign-
destroying expedition has lost one of its members, by
the thought of your gentle reproof, or sorrowful eyes,
overpowering his love of mischief at the last moment
before starting.

Mas. MoBDAUNT. — It makes me very happy to hear
you say that, my dear boy. Yet you are almost too old
for a lecture, since you look over my head now, with per-
fect ease.

Theodore. — "Well, good advice need not be a lecture.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — I must confess there are some
points where there is room for improvement in your course
of conduct.

Theodore. — I know that well. Take the little sins
first, mother, and then attack the big ones.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — The first little sin, then, Is the
utter waste of your powers of conversation. You are a
boy with more than the average amount of brains, of some
talent, and have received a good education, and among
your gentlemen friends you may use your advantages — of
that I cannot judge — but ai&ong your lady friends, you
are only one degree removed from an empty-headed
coxcomb.

Theodore. — Mother !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — It is an undeniable fact. Once
among ladies, you talk the most arrant nonsense, by the
hour together.

Theodore. — Oh mother, not always ! I do talk sense
sometimes, I am sure.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — When ? Recall your conversation
last evening in a roomful of clever, sensible girls, and
repeat, if you can, one single sentence that you would
oare to have quoted as a specimen of yout conversational
powers. Was it not from beginning to end, the smallest
of all small talK ? The merest twaddle, about wcatheri
opera, and dress, not even rising to the current topics of
the day ? Come, now, Theodore, be candid.

: ; i '

Ml
i"

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Theodore.— But; mother^ I don't want the girls to set
me down for a pedantic, conceited fellow, anxious to dis-
play his own learning. Girls like small talk !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Do they ? Pray upon what foun-
dation do you form that opinion ?

Theodore. — They never talk of anything else but
weather, opera, and such subjects.

Mrs. Mordaunt.«-Do you ever give them a chance ?
Did you ever try to lead any of your young lady friends
into a sensible, rational conversation, upon some topic
that might interest both of you ?

Theodore.— I confess I never did. I thought they
liked small talk and flattery.

Mrs. Mordaunt.— Nonsense I If you will confine
your remarks entirely to the regions of nonsense, of course
the young ladies can do nothing but follow your lead. Do
you talk so among gentlemen ?

Theodore. — No ; not when we really converse.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Yet if you were really conversing
upon subjects of interest and importance, science, art,
politics or literaturoj what would you do if a party of
young ladies entered the room ?

Theodore. — We should all do the same thing.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — And that would first be, to look as
guilty as if you were plotting a murder, or as silly as if
you had been reading Mother Goose, and then each one of
you would turn to your favorite companion among the
invaders, compliment her dress and appearance, and set
in motion a perfect tide of empty words and phrases.

Theodore. — I am afraid I must plead guilty !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Very complimentary to our sex, is it
not?

Theodore. — Having displayed the fault, now for the
advice.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — The advice is that the next time
you converse with a young lady, you try to confine your
conversation within the regions of common sense and

ii'i
i i:

STARTING IN LIFE.

interest, and see if she will not follow you as readily as
into the flowery paths of flattery and compliment.

Theodore. — I'll try it !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Next, Theodore, I would cease to
make a chimney of my mouth.

Theodore. — Oh, mother, a cigar now and then will
not hurt any one !

Mrs. Mordaunt. —I am not so sure of that ; and
hosides, who can be sure it will be only a cigar now and
then ?

Theodore.«»I do not chew tobacco.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — I hope no^ I should be sorry to
see a son of mine indulging in so disgusting a habit.
Chewing tobacco is not only poisonous to the constitution,
but it is an ungentlemanly, filthy habit, that is offensiye
to every person of refinement.

Theodore. — I quite agree with you.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Smoking is not much better, even
if indulged in but moderately^ and who can say modera-
tion in any vice will not lead to excess. Kcmember the
love for tobacco increases with the indulgence in its use.

Theodore. — I think two cigars a week will cover all
the indulgence I allow myself in that way. That will not
harm any one.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Perhaps not. But remember great
vices take root in little faults. Two cigars a week may
lead to four next week, then one each day, two, three, till
what was but a scarcely indulged luxurious taste, becomes
a positive necessity; you will never feel contented unless
you have a cigar between your lips. Then will follow in-
dolence, a torpid drowsiness, and the want of stimulus may
lead you into a love for drink.

Theodore. — I never craved ihatj mother. It is but
rarely I touch even a glass of wine.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Like the occasional cigar, Theo-
dore, the wine now and.then is a dangerous beginning.

Theodore.— You advise, then, total abstinence from
liquor and tobacco. ?

24.

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

!i m

Mrs. MordAunt. — It is the only real safeguard. You •
can never be certain of yourself, if you once permit the
love for either to grow upon you. Now, it is easy to give
them up, a year from now, the cessation may entail posi-
tive suffering, later may be almost impossible.

Theodore. — I will consider your words, mother.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — If there were no moral objection,
Theodore, drinking and smoking are such vulgar yices.
I would have my son a gentlemani

Theodore. — What is a gentleman ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Are you in earnest ?

Theodore. — Yes. ppinions are so divided. Some of
my friends will not wear a coat of last year's cut, because
they are afraid of being mistaken for ungentlemanly fel-
lows, yet have no objection to running in debt, and shirk-
ing payment for the same. Now can swindling be gentle-
manly ? Debt contracted without any prospect of payment
looks to me like cheating. One man will not swear be-
cause it is ungentlejianly, while another will tell you of an
oath that it is such a gentlemanly way of swearing ; the term
seems to me to involve a perfect maze of contradictions, so
I ask you again, what is a gentleman ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. Pass me the dictionary from th«
table.

Theodore. — Now you are laughing at me?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Not at all. Did you ever look
for it in the dictionary ?

Theodore. — Never.

[^Fasses dictionary to Mrs. Mordaunt.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Here we have a variety of defini-
tions. Sidney pronounces a gentleman ^< A man of birth ;
a man of extraction, though not noble." :- ' ,-

• Theodore. — That will scarcely answer for our new
country.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Shakespeare informs us that it is
'^ A man raised above the vulgar by his character or post,"
and again, that " It is used of any man, however high."

8"<a

STARTING IN LIFE.

[. You.
ait the
to give
il posi.

jection,
,r yices.

Some of
because
Qly fel-
d shirk-
: gentle-
)aymeQt
rear be-
>a of an
iheterm
ionS; so

)in ih%

r look

DAUNT.

defini-
birth ;

ir new

it it is

post,"

high."

Theodore. — That is better. ■ "' • ■

Mrs. Mordaunt.— Addison says, <' It is a term of
complaisance; sometimes ironical."

Theodore. — It is more than that in this age.
■ Mrs. Mordaunt.— And Camden says it is : " The
servant who waits about the person of a man of rank."^

Theodore. — But none of those definitions will describe
a Canadian gentleman of the present day, which I sup-
pose is what you want me to be. Tell me what must /do
in the arena of my new life, to deserve the title of a true
gentleman ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — A true Christian gentleman is the
liighest moral position a man may attain in this country.
First, my son, you must take the golden rule for your con-
stant guide.

Theodore. — " Do unto others as you would others
should do unto you/' you mean ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — For unselfishness is the first rule of
courtesy. From this spring benevolence and gentlenesSj
and these lay the foundation for the thousand acts of po-
liteness, that in a true gentleman are but the outward
symbols of a nobility of soul.

Theodore. — Christianity, then, is the foundation.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Undoubtedly. To reach this high-
est grade of earthly perfection, a thorough Christian gen-
eman, a man must unite in himself all that is noble and
ood in the human character. I think it is Buskin who
ys, ^* A gentleman's first characteristic is that firmness

structure in the body, which renders it capable of the
most delicate sensation, and of structure in the mind which
fenders it capable of the most delicate sympathies — one

ly simply say, fineness of nature."

Theodore. — But that is reducing the whole to simple
efinement.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Refinement in every sense, moral,

thysioal and mental. How oan you go higher ? Refined
onor can never tolerate a dishonorable action, therefore a

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

|i <

refined gentleman must be tlie soul of honor. Eefiaement
of body will make necessary neatness, and propriety in
dress, while it will curb the vulgar display of wealth or ex-
treme fashion.

Theodore. — Do you class courage among the qa%Iitiee
necessary to form a gentleman ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — True courage, yes.

Theodore. — You mean moral courage ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Guiding and directing mere physi.
cal brayery. It has been remarked by observers, durin;
many wars, both of late years and in olden times, how far
apart were the courage of the gentleman, and that of the
ruffian. The latter, displaying mere physical disregard of
danger, was made furious by the excitement of battle, and
dared everything in a fierce animal love of f%hting, and
oommitting injury upon his foes. He threw aside mercy,
discipline and self-control, and became a mere sanguinary,
revengeful animal, murderer^and savage. But the gentle-
man soldier, fired by the noble -enthusiasm of aiding in a
good cause, recollecting and fully appreciating his perso-
nal danger, accepts the risk, and with his life in his hand,
dares as much, and fights as bravely as the most furious
ruffian, yet regards discipline, tempers duty with mercy,
and keeps his self-command in his most daring onslaught.

Theodore. — I have often heard people say, they can
recognize a gentleman as soon as they see one. Can you
do so, mother ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — No. I frankly confess that I have
been deceived more than once in such decisions. There
are many men who have all the polish of manner, all the
grace and courtesy of a Chesterfield, yet who are at heart
cruel and rude, only deferring to outward observances to
shine in society. Others with no knowledge of the eti-
ouette of that society, yet with a heart full of gentle
aeference to age, weakness or merit, are gentlemen at
heart, though they may appear clowns in manner.

Theodore. — Then it is not well to decide hastily.

STARTING IN LIFE.

ire physi.
Bf daring

, how far
it of the
regard of
attle, and
Angf and
le mercy,
iguinary,
le gentle-
ding in a
is perso-
tiis hand,
1 furious
h mercy,
islaught.
hey can
Can you

it I have
There
r, all the
at heart
ranees to
the eti-
■ gentle
lemen at

Mrs. Mordaunt.— No. Observation of manner is a
rood test, because a gentleman at heart will have that in
lis tone and actions that will shine above all the mere sur-
[face polish of mere society airs.

Thiodore. — It is carious how the authorities vary.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Some authors define a gentleman as
dxnply one who lives without work.

Theodore.— But saperannuated residents of the alms-
iJioase live without work.

Mrs. Mordaunt.— Others define it as one who is able
|o live in cemfbrt without work, one possessing fortune.

Theodore. — Mere money cannot make yowr gentle-
man, mother ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Never, because I consider idleness
18 a vice. Honorable employment is not derogatory to a
l^entleman, because it paves the way to independence.

Theodore. — But if a man already possesses a fortune ?

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Then he can find ample employ-
ment for his time in works of philanthropy and charity.

Theodore. — Well, I shall have to make my fortune,
>efore I spend it !
t Mrs. Mordaunt. — Another fault against which I
irould warn you, Theodore, is a tendency to over-dress.
What is vulgarly called ^as^-dressing is becoming a vice
Imly too common among our young men. Gay neckties,
jewelry in profusion, smart waistcoats, and conspicuous
gloves.

Theodore, (lau(/hing.) — A gentleman may not have
,^e scope allowed the fair sex, then ?
t Mrb. Mordaunt. — No. Custom has decided that
ouiet colors, and a modest style of dress are m^re becom-
&g to your sex, so I beg you will not appear again in the
^ry gay waistcoat and necktie with which you dazzled my
lyes last evening.

Theodore.— To hear is to obey*

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Lounging abou^ the streets is an-
Ither evil. I will not mention whose son it was, I saw

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

last weekj loaning against a tree-box, talking to fire other
boyS; apparently as idle as himself.

Theodore, (laughing.') — I am afraid you must owj
him.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — And that is another of the litti;
sinS| against which I would warn you as paths to grea;
vices. Idleness can be cultivated^ till it rules soul, mini
and body with a rod of iron. Find something to do.

Theodore. — But father told me I might take a mont'a
to look about me.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Look about you, then. Do no
waste one day of your month, but gain something in that
time that will help you in your future life. And in th^
train of idleness, you will find wasteful •xtravaganoe.

Theodore. — I know what you mean now. My drive
last week, cost me more than I could afford, yet I could
not avoid the expense without appearing mean.

Mrs. Mordaunt.— Do not be a slave to the opinions of
a set of brainless fellows who want to enjoy themselyes
at your expense. It is not mean to keep within the lim-
ita of your purse. Your character will not stand anj
higher among sensible people, for wearing clothes [more
expensive than you can afford; running in debt for
suppers you ought not to give j smoking, drinking, gam*
bling, to pass away time you ought to employ in usefiil
labor. You must scorn the ridicule that would lead you
to useless extravagance, not fear it.

Theodore. — Fear is scarcely the word.

Mrs. Mordaunt. — Fear is exactly the word. It is a
want of moral courage that leads to half the evils that be-
set young men, when starting in life.

Theodore. — ^There's the sun !

Mrs. Mordaunt. — And you think you have had enough
good advice for one day ?

Theodore. — I did not mean that. You have given me
subjects for many an hour of thought.

MBS. Mordaunt. — And prayer, my son. Bemembei

kvail

STABTINO IN LIFE.

P the littl;
fis to great
soul, mis^
to do.
ke a mom'a(

I. Do no:
ing in tha:
Lnd in th:
gance.

My drive
^et I could

mj counsels and jour good resolutions will be of no
brail; unless you ask for strength and guidance from your

leayeoly Father. He only can keep your feet in Ihe
Sght path.

TnEODORE. — I will remember I

Mrs. Mordaunt. — And now you must go. I am oblig-

' to go out at this hour to take Clara to the dentist's.

IBoth go out

opinions of
themselyeg
1 the lim-
stand anj
>thefi [more

debt for
ting, gam.

in usefiil
d lead yon

1. It is a
Is that be-

id enou(;li

giyen me
»emembei

i 7

AMBIT ION.

€l)ara(Ur0.

LAWRENCE.
CHARLES.

PAUL.

HENRY.
FRANK.

A «tudy. Frank seated at a table, with an open book before hiin.
Ueeide the book vpon the table, are pen, paper, ink and a glob'U

Frank, {sighing.) — My head feels fairly dizzy over thctje
problems, yet I am resolved to conquer them. It will bo
a disappointment to my dear father, if I do not take the
prize at this examination, for I resolved to compensate
him for last year's disappointment, by being very studi-
ous. My history, geography, and grammar I have but
little fear about, but mathematics are so hard for me, and
Latin is terrible. . •

Enter Henry, Pauj., Charles, and Lawrence.

Henrt. — Come, Frank, we are going up to Turtle Rock
for a boat race, and want you !

Frank, {eagerly >^ — A boat race ! What boat's?

Charles. — The Undine and Serpent.

Frank. — It will bo a close match !

Lawrence. — Yes, the best regatta of the season. Come,
we are in a hurry !

Frank,(W8iw^.) — ril be ready in five minutes. No I
\_Re%umei his seat.'\ I cannot go.

Lawrenje. — Oh, nonsense ! You must go !

Frank. — I cannot, I have set myself a task to do first

ChablbS; (Jooking at books.) — Conio seotiona ! Ughl

AMBITION.

cjore him,
I a globe.

' over theae
It will be
I take tlie
lompensate
ery studi-
have but
br me, and

urtle Bock

D. Come,
«s. No!

9 do first.
I Ughl

Lawrence. — Oh, bother conic sections !

Frank. — I wish I could, for they certainly bother me I

Paul. — Must you stay, Frank ?

Frank. — Yes, IJaul. Father wants mo to try for the
prize, this year.

Lawrence. — You are ambitious, then ?

[Laughs snceringly.

Frank. — Is that a crime, Larry ?

Lawrence— That is a very nice question, Frank.

Henry. — We can spare a little time, and Frank evi-

Idently wants a rest from his conic sections. Come, we

lulli have an important debating club. I propose the ques-

lion. Is ambition a vice or a virtue ? [^All take seats,

Lawrence. — Were there no ambitious men, it appears
to inc that progress must bo ended, science would come to
ft standstill, and the world stagnate. What truly great
Bian ever left the world a benefactor to his fellow-man,

ho was not spurred from height to height by ambition ?

Charles. — Yet an ambitious man in history is con-

idered a vicious man by many writers. We find the

i|uality classed with pride and uoscrupulous conduct, while

Ipcripture condemns it^ in more than one place.

I Frank. — Ambition led Watt to the highest rounds of

the ladder of science.

I Paul. — Ambition caused Satan to be cast from heaven!
^ Lawrence. — Like every quality given to man, ambition
nay lead him cither to perfection or ruin. True ambition
•ppears to me the pure honest desire to excel in whatever
,ire undertake, provided always that we do not suffer our
^elfish desire to rise, to lead us into doing wrong to our
Ibllow-men, or violating the commands of God. Every
ftlwyer should enter the bar with the aim and hope of becom-

g a judge; every poet should aspire to being a second

akespeare; every scientific scholar should hope to dis-

ver power as great as steam or magnetism ; every soldier

ould look forward to becoming a general ; and every

hoolboy should aim at the head of his class, for only that

TEMPERANCE DIALOOUES.

desire and hope of rising, can make us aim at perfeoiioo
in the condition of life we occupy at starting. The man
who is content to plod along in the lowest ranks, will be
found to be indolent, sluggish, and wo^^hless.

Paul. — Yet Bacon sam '< Ambition is like anger
which makes men full of alacrity if it is not oheoked| bat
if it is checked in any manner, and not able to have its
own way, it becomes malign and 'venomous/' Now if
Bacon is right, we can scarcely consider ambition as a
virtue, since it may lead to such disastrous results, and
if not a virtue, it must be a vice.

Frank. — Yet, without ambition, how much of man's
natural dignity would be lost, since it spurs to exertion all
his highest intellectual powers ? Without it, man would
be content to be a poor, debased creature, allowing the
powers of his brain to rust for want of energy to cultivate
and apply them ; he could never rise in his profession,
having no ambition to reach its highest point. Like
every other good gift it is the abuse and not the use of
ambition's fire, that leads to sin. Kept within proper
bounds, is a noble quality, leading to perfection.

Charles. — But the trouble is, how to limit it I A good
man looks upon content as a virtue ; yet an ambitious man
never knows content ! However powerful he may be, his
insatiable passion, ambition, spurs him forward to grasp
higher powers, unheeding whom he may overthrow in his
selfish progress, often letting desire usurp the place of
justice, and in the end, dying with an unsatisfied craving
for heights life was not long enough to scale.

Lawrence. — No one can deny that the grades of am-
bition vary with each nature, and that in somo the passion
becomes a dangerous and sinful striving for mere wordly
advantage. Yet because ungoverned minds become weak-
ened by their own unlimited desires, it docs not follow
that ambition itself becomes a vice. We might as well
say that fire is an evil, because sometimes it destroys, in-
stead of ministering to our own comfort. Ambition is the

AMBITION.

etrongcst incentive (o perjcvrance, and difficulties will
sink before it, where they had appeared mountain high.
Take, for instance, our great travellers, explorers and dis-
coverers, where could they have gained the energy that
led them through heat and cold, exposure and danger,
doubt and difficulty, had not ambition kept alive their hope
and courage '(

Paul. — Yet inordinate ambition is but the sin of covet-
ousness under another name, for what is coveting, save
desiring that which does not belong to us ? It leads to
avarice, after stimulating to the pursuit of wealth ; to
tyranny, after power is gained ; to disappointment when
the glittering bubble we pursue turns to tinsel in our
grasp.

Frank. — Without ambition no great deed was ever
accomplished. It is a guiding-star to the wise and good,
only a snare to the vain and foolish.

CiiARLE?.— Ambition caused Napoleon to deluge Europe
with blood !

Lawrence. — Ambition led Benjamin Franklin to the
most wonderful discoveries in Electricity.

Paul. — Ambition made Richard the Third a murderer.

Frank. — And Washington a father to his country.

Henry. — Very well argued on both sides. Frank, have
you Lilly's Midas?

Frank. — Not here,

Henry. — Then I must trust to memory. He says,

" Ambition hath but two steps J tho lowest
13lood; the highest envy."

while Crown on the other hand 6ay3 :

" Ambition is a spirit in the world,
That causes all the ebbs and flows of nations.
Keeps mankind sweet by action ; without that,
The world would be a filthy settled mud."

So we close the debate by deciding that : Ambition ruled
by Religion and Keason is a virtue : unchecked and mad-
dened by Vanity and Covetonsness it is a vice !

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Charles. — It is time for us to be off now, boys. Frank,
are you sure you cauDot join us ?

Frank. — I will work hard till I have conquered my
appointed tcsk, and then, if it is not too late, will come
after you.

Lawrence. — Good-bye, then, we will not detain you
any longer from your work.

All. — Good-bye! [^ All go out, excqH Yra.sk.

Frank. — I think I may trust my ambition, since its
aim now is to gratify my father, and prove myself worthy
of the pains he is taking to make me a good scholar. I
must go to my room for another slate, and then to work
again. [^Goesout.

THE ILLS OF DRAM-DRINKING.

FOR THRBK MALES.

\Tke Drunkard, Tou, mtnt be dre8$ed rather $habb{ly, and hit note
muit be reddened ; Jc/ON, a» a respwiable xcorkivg-man, ondLovE-
DROr, xcith a cigar.)

John. — WeJl,Tom, bow are you ? I have not seen you
for a long time.

Tom. — I am not very well.

John. — What is the matter with you ?

Tom. — Why, I don't exactly know. I feel very weak
and languid, as well as thirsty and miserable. 1 suppose
I must go and get another pint or two to set mc all right.

John. — A pint or two of what ?

Tom. — Of the very best beer.

John. — Can you tell me what your beer is made of?

Tom.— No.

John. — Water, treacle; poison, and a little putrefied
vegetable matter.

Tom, — I don't care ; it's the best medicine that over
was invented, for I have tried it before.

John. — How much did you take ?

Tom. — About half a dozen pints, more or less.

John. — That must be a very queer way of taking medi-
cine; six pints in a day! But please tell mo hoir you
felt after this large dose. ,

Tom. — I felt as if everything was upsida down, myself
included ; and every now and then the ground would seem
to jump up and hit me on the head. I felt as if I could
fight anybody, and was very proud of trying to walk both
sides of the path at once.

John. — Your medicine operated very curiously j bat
did* it cure you ?

Tom. — Yes, that it did for the time.

John. — But how did you feel the next morning ?

Tom. — This is the next morning, and it was only last

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

night I tried the experiment, and I have already told you
how I feel ; but I omitted to tell you that I shall not be
able to get my full dose to-day, because I am very light in
three places.

John. — Where are they ?

toM. — My stomach, my head, and my pocket.

John. — So, after you have tried your miraculous medi-
cine, you find the ufifects are, firstly — it removed your
malady for the time, only for it to return l^th increased
violence; secondly — it rendered you incap^Ie of govern-
ing yourself j in plain terms, you were drunk; thirdly —
it created a desire to return again to the so-called medi-
cine ; fourthly — it made you light in the three pla'3es you
have mentioned. Now I want to have a word with you
about this drink. You were at one time fond of argu-
ment.

Tom.— Well, talk away then, only don^t be long over it,
for I am as thirsty as a herring.

John. — You don't seem to care much about the matter ;
but first ask me some question, fori can't knock anything
down before it's built up.

Tom. — Did not Solomon say a pint of beer was a good
thing for a working-man ?

John. — No.

Tom. — Then didn't somebody tell Timothy to take a
drop of gin for his stomach's sake ?

John. — Not exactly that either ; but is there anything
the matter with your stomach ?

Tom — It's rather empty, that's all.

John. — Then what do you think is the best thing to
fill it with ?

Tom. — Why, some beer, to be sure.

John. — Can you tell me what becomes of the beer after
you have drank it ?

Tom. — It fills up my stomach, and answers the purpone
of a good dinner.

John. — How much do you think your stomach is
capable of holding ?

THE ILLS OF DEAM-DUINKING.

lOb IB

Tom. — I have read in some books, when I was young,
about two pints.

John. — Then what a foolish man you must bo, to try
and get six pints into a two-pint measure.

Tom. — I never thought of that before. ^

John. — Do you not see that a pound of bread would
usefully fill yojutyktomach, while the injurious beer is
.immediateljiflHH into your system ?
^ To»f. — ^H^^^^ use talking to you ; you've been
better educa^j^ftn I have ; but when I have been to the
Half Moon and got primed, I will come back and talk to
you. But in the mean time, here is Mr. Lovedrop — he
will soon settle you. (^Exit.)

{Eater Lovedrop.)

Lovedrop. — Well, friend John, how are you ?

John. — In the very best of health. How are you ?

Lovedrop. — Oh, pretty well, except a light bilious
headache ; but say, I have heard you are a teetotaler !

John. — I am a teetotaler, and I am proud of it.

Lovedrop. — The more fool you to join such a set of.
enthusiasts ; you may as well condemn the whole system
of navigation, b':'cause some get drowned in the practice
of it.

John. — All great men were enthusiasts in the particular
branch of science or ait that they excelled in ; Newton,
Hunter, Davy, and others. The proper meaning of the
word is *' man in earnest." The case you state about
navigation docs not apply to the subject ; drinking intoxi-
cating drinks is not necessary, may be done without alto-
gether, and their use is highly dangerous to the commu-
nity; while navigation is both necessary and useful.

Lovedrop. — 1 contend that the little drop I take does
me no harm.

John. — Define your term ; how much is a little drop ?

Lovedrop. — Three glasses in a day.

John. — That would amount to above one thousand
glasses a year ; rather a large drop.

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

LovEDROP. — Did not Christ make wine at the marriage
feast in Can a ?

John. — Yes; but* you cannot prove that it was intoxi-
eating wine ; on the contrary, we have evidence to prove
th^ it was not so. I heard a very good answer to that in
a meeting once. A little boy was making a speech, and
occasionally quoted texts of tScripturc^jifina crusty old
bachelor got up and inquired sneefl^^H||^the boy, if
Christ did not make wine at the malHUHBt ; the boy
replied that he was too young and the^BJMnan was too
old, as well as too ugly, to get married ; that if they only
drank wine at their marriage-feasts, there would not be
much danger of their ever becoming sots.

LovEDROP. — Did not Noah get drunk ?

John. — And do you believe he was any the better for it?
on the contrary, he was much the worse, and if a wise and
good man like Noah could;notwithstand the temptation, how
much more likely are you to be borne down before it ?

LovEDROP. — There is no danger of my falling into the
temptation.

John. — Yes there is, a very great danger ; do you know
a single drunkard who at one time had the remotest idea
of ever becoming what he is ?

LovEDROP. — You are assuming that I associate with
drunkards, which is not the case. I drink in moderation,
because it helps to support the government, you see.

John. — It must be a poor government which cannot get
along without that drink which causes such crime, pov-
erty, and wretchedness as is everywhere visible. Both
government and society lose by it in the end, for if the
sale of strong drinks were utterly and forever prohibited
by law, three-fourths of the jails iind work-houses would
perish with them.

LovEDROP. — But what would become of the distillers
and saloon proprietors ?

John. — What do they deserve to be done with, who
sell out that liquid curse which destroys sixty thousand
men in a year ?

THE ILLS OF DRAM-DHINKINO.

LovEDROP. — But they are respectable members of so-
ciety, and must be done something with.

John. — Let them turn farmers and cultivate the ground,
and learn to use its products to a better purpose than to
make drinks which proves ihe curse of the country.

LovEDROP. — The teetotalers don't go the right waj to
work, trying to get a Maine Law, and prohibit the sale;
they oughtJ|tfBfe|feet individuals to give up, and in
time the ^i^^^^Hl^nity would become moderate.

JoHN.--^miilK't you join us then, and show us a
more excellent way, instead of swelling the ranks of the
enemy ? Your argument would apply wiih equal force to
the law against stealing and other vices.

LovEDROP. — When I get into company they will have
me drink, and besides I like it and it seems to do me good;
I ian't give it up.

John. — Can't ! You ought to be ashamed to say sc»,
I have given it up, and if you can't I am a better mao
than you. As to the drink seeming to do you good, your
bilious headache is a case in point. Half the ills that
flesh is heir to may be traced, directly or indirectly, to
the use and abuse of stimulants.

LovEDRor. — Why, my dear sir, you would not cer-
tainly deny that liquor does good in some cases ?

John. — Very few cases indeed can be cited where it
does good. You know that the medical profes.-ion is now
rapidly discarding its use as a medicinal agent; and as a
beverage it is now pronounced hurtful, debilitating and
full of misery in the future to every man who imbibes the
accursed thirst for ardent spirits.

LovEDROP. — I will think upon what you have said, but
I am afraid it'B no use at my time of life.

John. — It's never too late to mend ; but I see you arc
like many other moderates ; your judgment says, abstain,
but your palate says, I like a little drop.

LovEDROP. — Well, I can't stop any longer, so gooi-bye.

John. — Good-bye; but think of what I have told you,
and attend our meetiD:'S.

CHOOSINU A TKADE.

(!II)araclcrflf.

MR. MORGAN.

CHARLES.

EDWARD.

ALFRED.

DAVID.

FRANK.

GODFREY.

ISAAC.

MARK.

Mr. Morgan read'n^-, Charles reading; Edward anc/
Alfred p^a; -•. <j?s; David and Gtodfret playing
hackgammon , l" ■■'' md Mark writing.
Charles — (loo!Auij xj^^ from his book.) — I should like
to be a great author !

:r Mr. Morgan.- ./h^thu. la^pired you with that de-
sire so suddenly?

Charles. — Reading Milton at this moment, Macaulay
yesterday, and Dickens perhaps to-morrow. Is it not a
great gift, that by the written thought issuing from one
man's pen, thousands may be instructed, pleased, per-
haps led from vice to virtue, from sin to God ?

Mr. Morgan. — It is indeed a noble profession, when
taken up in the spirit which you describe, Charles. Not
adopted merely for money or fame, but with the sincere
desire to ennoble your fellow-men, diffuse knowledge and
lead to Christianity. But it is no play to be such an
author.

Charles. — I know that, sir. But I will study hard to
gain knowledge now, that when I take up my pen in fu-
ture, I may rank as a great author.

CHOOSING A TRADE.

Edward.— And I shall study hard too, Charles, to do
for men's bodies what you purpose to do for their minds.

Mr. Morgan. — You will be a doctor, Edward?

Edward. — That is my great desire, sir. I would be a
famous physician, such as now stand for authorities at
the head of their profession.

Mr. Morgan. — You must be a close student, to realize
that dream.

Edward. — True. I would study Science in her high-
est branches, and then seek out practical uses for my
knowledge. A doctor has a grand work before him.

Mr. Moroan. — The power of alleviating or preventing
suffering is certainly one of the noblest gifts given to man.
And no man has such power so completely within his
grasp as the conscientious, skilful physician.

Edward. — I would be no hermit, to shut myself within
four walls for the purpose of crowding my own brains
with knowledge, but in the hospitals, among the poor,
wherever misery could be relieved, pain conquered, dis-
ease baffled, there I would make my study, till I had the
science at my own command. And then, Charli??, ray
hands against your pen, in the work of benefiting man-
kind.

Alfred.— I will be a sailor !

Charles. — You, Al! I thought you wore to bo Ed-
ward's rival in the medical profession ?

Alfred. — So they say at home, but the student's life
has no charm for mo. I would lead an active life, wrestle
with the elements, dare the storm in its fury, court the
breeze in its mild humor, till I had steered my vessel
safely from port to port, bearing the spices of the East,
the furs of the North, the jewels of the'South, to trade for
our own corn and cotton. Or, upon a man-of-war, do
battle for my country's flag, and place my name upon the
roll of honor, now blazoned in our navy.

Frank. — I aspire to becoming an inventor.

Mr. Morgan.— Of what ?

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Faank. — SomethiDg in the way of a magnetic telegraph ,
or an iron-clad, sir. \^All laugh.'] I am content to
commence in an humble way, and take my position
as apprentice in a machine Bhop. I will learn to file
a hammer and bore ; will study mechanical drawing,
will master civil engineering, until from a work-
man, I rise to a higher position, master of my trade,
knowing the relative powers of material and force,
and when my name appears on a patent as important as
the locomotive or sewing machine, you fellows will all
laugh on the other side of your mouth ! Then Charlea
may write verses to my honor, Alfred may carry my fame
abroad

Charles. — And Edward patch up your worn-DU'', brains
and body.

David. — I should like to be a lawyer. Law is the lever
by which crime is

Charles. — Elevated to the gallows.

David. — You shut up, you'Te had your say. You
have spoiled one of the most eloquent defences of the law,
ever spoken outside of a court-voom. Perhaps it is just
as well, for I can never realize my wish.

Mr. Morgan. — Why not, David?

David. — Father is going to teach mo his trade, sir, and
expects me to go into his store.

Edward. — What is his trade ?

David. — Shoemaking !

Charles. — " Oh, what a fall was there, my country-
men !"

David. — From the judge's wig, to his honor's boots I
Well, he shall have good boots if I make them, anyhow.

Mr. Morgan. — That's the right spirit, David. If you
are obeying your father, and performing faithfully the
duty appointed for you, you will be as happy and useful
on the shoemaker's bench as on the judge's.

David. — What shall you be, Godfrey ?

Godfrey. — A merchant. I shall charter Alfred's ves-

CHOOSING A TRADE.

legraph,

Dtcnt to

position

1 to file

drawing,

a work-

y trade,

d force,

irtant as

will all

Charles

my fame

1)'^ brains

the lever

y. You
the law,
it is just

sir, and

country-
boots I

anyhow.
If you

lly the
useful

id's ves-

sel, and many more, to send to every known port, to col-
lect wares for my stores. I shall open paths of employ-
ment for hundreds of my fellow-men. Sailors shall man
my vessels, clerks fill my counting-houses, salesmen my
stores. My wealth shall find a thousand avenues to bene-
fit others, while enriching myself.

Mr. Morgan. — An honest, liberal merchant, may do
all this, Godfrey ; yet watch carefully, lest the love of
amassing wealth contract your philanthropy, till it becomes
avarice.

Isaac. — 1 will be a traveler. I will explore the burn-
ing plains of Africa, and the frozen paths of the Arctic
regions, the deserts of the East, the prairies of the West,
will cross the trackless ocean, and journey over the land,
culling from every clime her hidden treasures of know-
ledge. My books shall rival those Edward writes, for I
will deal only with observation and facts. My pen shall
print for others what my eyes find worthy of record, and I
will plftoe my name among the great explorers.

Charles. — Unless you are eaten up by some of the
lions of Africa.

David. — Or the Polar bears.

Alfred.— Captured by the Arabs.

Godfrey. — Or scalped by the Indian?.

Isaac. — Bah ! Every life has its dangers. Why do
you not threaten Charles with a brain fever, Edward with
the small-pox, Alfred with drowning, and Frank with
mutilation ?

Mr. Morgan. — Your defence is just, Isaac. Every
profession has its dangers, and a coward would shirk all.
But what will our quiet little Mark be ?

Mark. — A missionary, sir.

Mr. Morgan.— a noble life, Mark,

Mark. — I trust to be allowed to realize my wish, sir.
My father is willing for me to study for the ministry.
And when I a# ready, all my schoolmates may aid me in
my work.

?:t~.

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Charles. — How, Mark ?

Mark. — Isaac shall tell mo where io his travels he
finds the greatest need of my services.

Isaac. — I'll hunt up heathens for you, never fear.

Mark, — Godfrey shall lend me a berth in one of his
vessels; to carry me to my destination.

Godfrey. — It shall be fitted up like a parlor for you.

Mark. — Alfred shall steer my ship across the ocean.

Alfred. — That I will, heartily.

Mark. — Frank shall aid me in imparting the myster-
ies of mechanics to my scholars.

Frank. — I'll invent machines for their special benefit.

Mark. — Edward shall pack my medicine chest.

Charles. — I will write your fame 1

David. — And I will make your boots 1

Mr. Morgan. — It gives me great pleasure, dear boys,
to find that you all seek to benefit others, not attain merely
your own selfish ends. The man who makes wealth, or
even fame, the sole object for which he works, will arrive
at his journey's end with a sordid and hardened heart.
But he who, in his daily routine of duty, will watch for
the opportunity of aiding others, elevating his fellow-men,
and doing good, whether he be poet or merchant, doctor
or mechanic, shoemaker or traveller, lawyer or missionary,
must become respected and beloved, and carry a clear
conscience and happy heart. [^Curtain /alls.

• SI' ■

THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD.

€l)avacler0.

JOHN.

THOMAS.
ARTUUR.

HENRY.

LOUIS.

PETER.

JOE.

The hot/s all seated at their desks. A number of other
hoys at desks. John in the teacher^ seat,

John, {striking desk with ruler,') Silence I

[In a loud voice,

Thomas. — Nobody is making a noise but you.

John. — Silence, I tell you! [In a louder voice,

Henry. — Set an example, if you want silence.

John. — Silence ! [As loud as he can speak.

Louis. — Silence !

All the Boys. — Silence !

John. — Having produced silence from the whole of
you, we will now proceed to the day's studies. First class
in history ! [All Jump up."] Keep your seats, but an-
swer the question* [All sit doicn.^ Who discovered
America ?

Henuy. — Peter the Hermit 1

TnoMAS.—Queen Victoria I

Louis. — Louis Napoleon !

P.BTER. — Martin Van Buren !

Joe. — Hail Columbia !

John. — Was there ever such a set of blookhoads f Chris-

TEMPERANCE DIALOOUKS.

topher Columbus discovered America — in — in — well, some
time Hgo 1

Henry. — Bully for him !

Thomas, — Three cheers for Ohmi,/ lAU cheer three

times,

John. — Silence! What do you mean by all thia
racket ?

Louis.— Give it up!

John. — Louis, you arc so smart ! Who beheaded
Cromwell ?

Louis. — Oh ! oh ! oh 1 [^AU the hoi/s echo, oh ! oh ! oh !

John. — Stop that noise ) Louii, answer the question.

Louis. — I can't;

John. — Henry, you answer it I

Henry. — Never knew before he was beheaded !

John. — I never heard of such gross ignorance I Never
knew Charles the first was beheaded ?

Louis. — You said Cromwell !

John. — It's all the same thing.

Henry. — I bet Charles didn't think so I

John. — Thomas, who beheaded Charles the first ?

Thomas. — The executioner.

John. — Louis, what are jc. giggling about ?

Louis. — I, sir ? I was only smiling serenely.

John. — Go to the dunce stocl.

Louis. — Certainly, sir. [Goes and sits on dunce stool,

John. — Uenry 1 '

Henry. — Here, sir.

John. — Hold your tongue, and tell me who was the
first President of the United States.

Henry. — How can I tell you, if I hold my tongue ?

John. — Hold your tongue, sir, and answer me I

Henry. — (holding his tongue with his fingers.) John
Jacob Astor.

John. — Who ? Speak distinctly.

Henry, {letting his tongue go.) — Louis the Fourteenth !

John.— I am ashamed of you. Who was the father of
hia country ?

^■s^iiji

THK SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD.

Henry. — The son of its grandfather, sir.

John.— No levity, sir I •

Henry. — The husband of its mother, then.

John. — Go sit on the dunoe stool, you blockhead !

[Henry sits in Louis' hp.

John. — Thomas, do you know your geography lesson ?

Thomas. — You'll find out, when you hear it.

John.— Bound Maine.

Thomas. — Can't do it, Bir. The boundless main is
proverbial.

John. — Where are the Andes ?

Thomas. — All my aunties are at home, thank you, sir.

'JHN. — How long is the Amazon River?

1 HOMAS. — Just three inches, sir, on my map. It is
rather longer on the map against the wall.

John, (sternly.) — I'll have no more nonsense ! Where
is Georgia 'i

Thomas. — Down South, and no nonsense about it !

John. — Go to the dunce stool, sir.

[Thomas, goes and sits on Henry's lap.

John. — Arthur, what is a conic section ?

Artuur — The most comic section I was over in, sir,
was the negro miastrel's hall.

John. — Conic, Arthur !

Arthur. — Yes sir : comic Arthur, if you will !
OHN. — Arthur, if ten tons of grain ost one hundred
urs, how many cattle will it feed ?

Arthur. — I don't believe the cat'Il eat ten tons, sir.
Our cat won't anyhow.

John. — Arthur, you are too smart for this school, I
ghall bo obliged to dismiss you.

Arthur. — Thank you ! [Jumps ^kp*

John. — But first, you may sit an hour on the duDoe
stool. Arthur sits on Thomas' la^i

John. — Peter, do you know your definitions 1

Peter. — I don't know, sir.

John.— Don't know what, your definitions ?

^^i

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Peter. — I don't kaow if I know my defioitions or not.

JofiN. — Define Cosmopolitan.

Peter. — Cricky!

John. — Not the proper definition. Go to the dunce
stool. [Peter sits in Arthur's lap.

Louis. — I say, John, it's ^:etting rather heavy here.
Some of you fellows come underneath.

[^Slips out, and they all fall down.

John. — Order there !

Henry. — You undertook to order for all of us.

John. — Sit down, all of you !

[AU try /or the stool, finally sit as he/ore, LouiS on
Peter's lap, Henry on the stool']

John. — Joseph!

Joe. — (m a squeaJcing voice.) That's me ! Short for
Joe!

John.'— Joseph, what is a verb ?

Joe. — Part of speech, sir.

John — Very good I What part !

Joe. — The — the — verbal part !

John. — Oh Joe ! Joe 1 What a dunce you are !

Hf.nry. — Oh John I John I here comes the teacher !
{^All hurry to their seats, andhegin to study out loud.

[^Curtain /alls

']-'"?s.'

MODERATION;
OR I CAN TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT ALONE.

;»•

BY THOMAS RITCHIB.

I became acquainted with Mr. A., in a neighboring
city, some considerable time ago, and formed a great liking
^G him. He was intelligent, frank, and lively; in a word,
essentially a social being; Just one of the class who
Btand on dangerous ground, though having an instinctive
dislike to excesa or coarse debauchery. Though then a
drinking man myself, I was older than he, and had seen
enough of the evils of intemperance and the deceitfulness
of strong drink, to make me wish to put him on his guard ;
but the opportunity never presented itself until about a
year afterwards, when I was so situated that I could en-
force precept with example.

Mr. A. had arrived in our village, on business ; and
immediately after his arrival I met him at a corner of a
Street. After the usual salutations, the following conver-
sation ensued :

Mr. A: — Is there no decent place here where we can
get a drop of something to cle. the cob-webs from our
throats ; I feel deuccdly husky this morning.

B. — Since I saw you last I have come to think that no
rum shop can be a decent place ; and, I am sorry to say,
that those of our village are of almost the lowest order.

Mr. A. — What, B ! Sworn off. No more jolly times, no
more of the spirited toasts, no more sallies of wit, under
the influence of the "rosy." I am astonished at you !

B. — Not more so than I am at myself. I am astonished
that, knowing the insinuating nature of social habits, and

(3 ii

^•wa^p

■IP

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

iHl

the dreadful effects of coDfirmed drunkenness, to which all
social drinking tends, I did not, long ago, renounce the
cursed habit of tippling.

Mr. A. — Well, I will, of course, allow that confirmed
drunkenness is bad, and brings much misery into the world ;
but you pay a poor compliment to yourself, if you say you
were in danger of becoming a slave to drink, as all drunk-
ards must be. I think you had strength of mind enough
to guard against that, and I, for one, can take a glass or lot
it alone. I dare say if I thought I were in danger of be-
coming a drunkard I should do as you have done. Besides,
I must say I like a glass now and then, especially when
the company is good.

B. — Well, the ice is broken, and I will speak plainly to
you. Now, or perhaps never, is your time to escape the
danger. You own ycu like a glass, and I know you like
good company, which in your estimation consists of social
merry fellows, and from these likings almost entirely
grow intemperance and drunkenness, among refined and
sensitive natures. xVpart from this easy entrance into the
Domains of Bacchus, no man, with a nature such as I give
you credit for, would ever find himself associating with
the bully, the loafer, to use an Americanism, and the
thief. Yet, such cases are altogether too common; And
you may become another sad exemplification of it.

Mr. A. — Nonsense. If I were to find the habit getting
the better of me, I should stop at once ; but, as I said be-
fore, I can take it or leave it alone.

B. — I do not doubt that you can now; but what guaran-
tee have you that you will always be able to make this
boast. You know the old saying, ^< Habit is second
nature.'' According to my observation, habit, at least
the habit of drunkenness is [^stronger than nature, for it
will make a high-souled, honorable man, the meanest thing
that crawls ; it will lead him to borrow money without the
least idea of paying it, and to beg for liquor, from people
that formerly he would have been ashamed to be seea
with. A man does not become a drunkard all at once;

MODERATION.

bioh all
ce the

nfirmed
J world J
say you
I drunk-
enough
iss or let
r of be-
Besides,
,y when

lainly to
sape the
you like
of social

entirely
ined and

into the
as I give
ng with
and the
II ; And

gettin'
said be

guaran-
Lake this
second

at least
re, for it
est thing
ihout the
m people

be seen
at once)

■ K

there would be few were such the case. ^ The
would appal the most abandoned. But the steady use of
liquors affects the nerves and weakens the will; and by the
time the poor moderate drinker sees the evils of intemper-
ance in his own case, ten chances to one he has not force of
will to make an effort for freedom; Alcohol, in some
shape, is almost necessary to his existence.

Mr. A. — Why B., you talk like an oracle, but I must
say, I think your new-found zeal carries you too far, and
to some extent, warps your judgment. But, as I said before,
I am husky, and if you will not accompany me I must take
a nip alone, for I think I see the picture of a Lion with a
suspiciously blue nose round the corner, and I shall test
his hospitality.

B. — Hold on, A. I don't like to think of your drinking
alone ; and, as I cannot accompany you, let me introduce you
to Mr. C, an acquaintance of mine, who, I daresay, will be
glad to show you the mysteries of the Blue Lion bar-
room.

Mr. A. looked suspisiously at me, for Mr. C, who
had just arrived on the ground, and to whom I introduced
him, showed no indications^of belonging to the " Upper
Crust/' being unwashed, uncombed, and altogether seedy
in attire. As they left, I told A. I wished to see him
further, and should wait his return from the tavern. A
quarter of an hour elapsed ere he made his appearance, and,
when he did, he looked at me with an expression of sus-
picion and enquiry.

Mr. A. — Well B., what genius was that you introduced
me to ; he don't quite seem to belong to your order ?

B. — No, he is or was one of your kind, one who
could take a glass or leave it alone; I thought it a good
opportunity of introducing you to a lecture on temper-
ance.

Mr. A.— By Jove ! you did that, and I had to pav for
it too. /^ ^

B. How was that, Mr. A ?
Mr. A. — Because your friend C. was very glad to see

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

I !

a gentleman of my intelligence from tlie city ; hoped he
should meet me again. Was sorry he could not return
the treat; as he had lefl his purse at home, and wound up
by insinuating that perhaps I could lend him 50Gts. for
the occasion. Would be sure to see me with his friend
B., &c.

B. — Ah ! C, is a smart fellow, and I had an object in
making you acquainted with him. I scarcely ever spoke to
him before, but I know his history. He used to be able to
take it or leave it alone, but now he always takes it and
never leaves it alone, if he can get it. Besides, he is no
ways scrupulous as to how he gets it. He would borrow
ten cents from a blind beggar, if he could. Tet, he was
once in the best circumstances; and was looked upon as the
Boul of honor and spirit.

Mr. A. — My God ! what a contrast; how did he come
to his present degradation ? I should like to have his
history.

B. — Well, I will tell you. He came to his present posi-
tion precisely as thousands do, and began by doing as you
are doing now. He was gay and social^ and thought he
could *^ take it or leave it alone ;'' but as it is a sad case,
I shall give you a sketch of his history. Poor C. w3l3 the
only child of a widow, whose husband died *shortly after
their marriage. She was married again and lavished all
her love and care on her only child. He grew up a hand-
some boy enough to make any mother proud. He got the
best education, and at 24 years of age he was admitted a
partner in a respectable business. For years he was appar-
ently prosperousj'and was the rage among the young ladies ;
while he was the leader in all social boon companionship.
He could not be said to neglect his business but his grow-
ing irregularities, for they did come, slowly but surely,
were beginning to attract attention. At last he married
the prettiest girl in the village, a gentle, confiding creature,
who adored her husband ! who though vexed and grieved,
could not think an occasional case of drunkenness was wroDg
in him; no matter what it would have been in others. At

MODERATION.

)ed he
return
undup
jts. for
friend

)ject in
poke to
able to
it and
le is no
borrow
be was
1 as the

e come
ave his

mtposi-
I as you
ight he
.d case,
wSs the
ly after
ihed all
a hand-
got the
aitted a
3 appar-
ladies j
ionship.
is grow-
surely,
married
rcature,
rieved;
IS wrong
rs. At

last his excesses became so ^reat that his partner got quit
of him, and headlong precipitation into excess followed.
His means were soon dissipated, and just as want was
beginning to stare them in the face, his loving little wife
sank broken-hearted into an early grave, leaving one little
image of herself to the care of the doubly crazy father.
Fortunately the mother's relations took the little stranger^
which the besotted father was not loth to surrender, and
ke went to stay with his now poor old mother, a spiritless^
aimless wretch. His downward course was so rapid and
sc complete that he seemed to think of nothing but how
to obtain drink, and under one pretence or another he has
contrived to strip his aged mother of nearly all she pos-
sessed. Such is the end of the once gay and handsome
C, who could then take it or leave it alone. How do
you like the picture ?

Mr. A. — Well, I must confess, it is not very encouraging;
but then he is an exceptional case. There are not many
such.

B. — Hold there; there are many such. Every drunkard
is an instance of a man who could once take it or leave it
alon^, as I can shew you, if you are not yet convinced.

Mr. A. — Well, B., I own there is great truth in what
you have said, and I am half convinced that it is safest
to leave it alone ; you have introduced me to a pretty
good lecture on temperance, at a cost of 50 cents. When I
see you next, I shall tell you my decision.

•■■t

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE

WITH

A DISTILLER, A WHOLESALE DEALER, AND A RETAILE?».

DIALOGUE I.

AT THE DISTILLERY. — FIRST INTERVIEW.

Distiller. — Good morning, Mr. Conscience ; though I
know you to be one of the earliest risers, especially of late,
I hardly expected to meet you here at day-dawn.

Conscience. — I am none too early, it seems, to find you
at your vocation. But how are you going to dispose of
this great black building ?

Distiller. — Why, I do not understand you.

Conscience. — What are you doing with these boiling
craters, and that hideous worm there ?

Distiller. — Pray explain yourself.

Conscience. — Whose grain is that ? and whal is bread
called in the Bible ?

Distiller. — More enigmatical still.

Conscience. — To what market do you mean to send
that long row of casks ? and how many of them will it
take upon an average to dig a drunkard's grave ?

Distiller. — Ah, I understand you now. I was hop-
ing that I had quieted you on that score. But I perceive
you have come upon the old errand. You intend to read
me another lesson upon the sixth commandment. But
what would you have me do ?

Conscience. — Put out these fires.

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC.

■ ;>»

Distiller. — Nay, but hear me. I entered into this bus-
iness with your approbation. The neighbours all encourag-
ed me. My brethren in the church said it would open a
fine market for their rye, and corn, and cider : and even
my minister, happening to come along when we were
raising, took a little with us under the shade, and said he
loved to see his people industrious and enterprising.

Conscience.^ — " The times of this ignorance God wink-
ed at — but now commandeth all men everywhere to re-
pent." In one part of your defence, at least, you are in-
correct. It was not my voice, but mj silence, if any thing,
which gave consent ; and I have always suspected there
was some foul play in the mi^tter, and that I was kept

3uiet for the time by certain deleterious opiates. Indeed,
distinctly recollect the morning bitters andj evening
toddy, which you were accustomed to give me ; and though
I thought but little of it then, I now see that it deadened
all my sensibilities. This, I am aware, is no excuse. I
ought to have resisted — I ought to have refused, and lo
have paralyzed the hand which put the cup to my lips.
And when you struck the first stroke on this ground, I
ought to have warned you off with the voice of levan
thunders. That I did not then speak out, and do my
duty, will cause me extreme regret and self-reproach to
the latest hour of my life.

Distiller. — But what, my dear Conscience, has made
you all at once so much wiser, not only than your former
self, but than hundreds of enlightened men in every com-
munity, whose piety was never doubted ? I myself know,
and have heard of not a few good Christians, including
even deacons and elders, who still continue to manufacture
ardent spirit, and think, or seem to think it right.

Conscience.— And think it right ! Ask their conscience.
I should like to witness some of those interviews which
take place in the night, and which make Christian dis-
tillers — (what a solecism !) — so much more irritable than
they used to be. I know one of the brotherhood, at least,
whose conscience has been goading him these five years,
and yet he perseveres.

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Distiller. — But if I stop, what will the people do ?
Balf the farmers in town depend upon their rye and cider
to pay their taxes, and even to support the Gospel.

Conscience. — So, then, you are pouring out these
streams of liquid death over the land, and burning up
your own neighbours, to enable them to pay their taxes
and support religion ! Why donH you set up a coffin fac*
tory, to create a brisker demand for lumber, and so help
the farmers to pay their taxes ; and then spread the small-
pox among the people, that they may die the faster, and
thus increase your business, and give you a fair profit ?
It will not do. I tell you, that I can give you no peace
till you put out these fires and destroy that worm.

Distiller. — How can I ? Here is all my living, espe-
cially since, as you know, my eldest son fell into bad hab-
its, in spite of all the good advice I daily gave him, and
squandered what might have afforded me a comfortable
independence.

Conscience. — Suppose you were now in Brazil, and
the owner of a large establishment to fit out slave traders
with handcuff's for the coast of Africa, and could not
change your business without considerable pecuniary sacri-
fice; would you make the sacrifice, or would you keep
your fires and hammers still going ?

Distiller. — Why do you ask such puzzling questions ?
You know I don't like them at all, especially when my
mind is occupied with other subject?. Leave mo, at least
till I can compose myself, I beseech you.

Conscience. — Nay, but hear me through. Is it right
for you to go on manufacturing fevers, dropsy, consump-
tion, delirium-tremens, and a host of other frightful dis<
eases, because your property happens to be vested in a
distillery? Is it consistent with the great law of love by
which you profess to be governed ? Will it bear exami-
ination in a dying hour ? Shall I bid you look back npon
it from the brink of eternity, that you may from such
recollections gather holy courage for your pending conflict
with the king of terrors ? Will you bequeath this magazine

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC.

• M-

of wrath and perdition to youf only son not already
ruined, and go out of the world rejoicing that you can
leave the whole concern in the hands of one who is so
trustworthy and so dear ?

[Here the Distiller leaves abruptly, without answering
a word.]

SECOND INTERVIEW.

Distiller. — (Seeing Conscience approach, and begin-
ning to tremble.) What, so soon and so early at your post
again ? I did hope for a short respite.

Conscience. — 0, 1 am distressed — I cannot hold my
peace. I am pained at my very heart.

Distiller. — Do be composed, I beseech you, and hear
what I have to say. Since our last interview I have re-
solved to sell out, and I expect the purchaser on in a very
few days.

Conscience. — What will he do with the establishment
when he gets it ?

Distiller. — You must ask him, and not me. But
whatever he may do with it, / shall be clean

Conscience. — I wish I could be sure of that ; but let
us see. Though you will not make poison by the hundred
barrels any longed yourself, you will sell this laboratory of
death to another man, for the same horrid purpose. You
will not, with your own hands, go on foi^ging daggers for
maniacs to use upon themselves aftd their friends, provided
you can get some one to take your business at a fair price.
You will no longer drag the car of Juggernaut over the
bodies of prostrate devotees if you can sell out the privilege
to good advantage !

Distiller.— Was ever any man's conscience so cap-
tious before ? Yoii seem determined not to be satisfied
with anything. But beware , by pushing matters in this
way you will produce a violent '' reaction.'' Even professors
of religion will not bear it. For myself, I wish to treat
you with all possible respect ; but forbearance itself must
have its limits.

w§

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

■ i

Conscience. — Possibly you maybe able to hold ma in
check a little longer ; but I am all the while gathering
strength for an onset which you cannot withstand ; and if
you cannot bear these kind remonstrances now, how will
you grapple with " the worm that never dies V

Distiller. — Enough, enough. I will obey your voice,
But why so pale and deathlike ?

Conscience. — 0^ I am sick^ I am almost suffocated.
These tartarean fumes, these dreadful forebodings, these
heart-rending sights, and above all, my horrid dreams, I
cannot endure them. There comes our nearest neighbor,
stealing across the lots, with his jug and half-bushel of
rye. . What is his errand, and where is his hungry shiver-
ing family ? And see there too, that tattered, half-starved
boy, just entering the yard with a bottle — who sent him
here at this early hour ? All these barrels — where are
the wretched beings who are to consume this liquid fire,
and to be consumed by it ?

Distiller. — Spare me, spare me, I beseech you. By
going on at this rate a little longer you will make me as
nervous as yourself.

Conscience. — But I cannot close this interview till I
have related one of the dreams to which I just alluded. It
was only last night that I suffered in tlfis way, more than
tongue can tell. The whole terrific vision is written in
letters of fire upon the tablet of my memory : and I feel
it all the while burning deeper and deeper.

I thought I stood by a great river of melted lava, and
while I was wondering from what mountain or vast abyss
it oame, suddenly the field of my vision was extended to
the distance of several hundred miles, and I perceived
that, instead of springing from a single source, this roll-
ing torrent of fire was fed by numerous tributary streams,
and these again by smaller rivulets. And what do you
think I heard and beheld, as I stood petrified with aston-
ishment and horror? There were hundreds of poor
wretches struggling and just sinking in the merciless
flood. As I contemplated the scene still more attentively,

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC.

the confused noise of boisterous and profane merriment,
mingled with loud shrieks of despair, saluted my ears.
The hair of my head stood up— and looking this way and
that way, I beheld crowds of men, women, and children,
thronging down to the very margin of the river— some
eagerly bowing down to slake their thirst with the coii-
euming liquid, and others convulsiyely striving to hold
them back. Some I saw actually pushing their neighbors
headlong from the treacherous bank, and others encour-
aging them to plunge in, by holding up the fiery tempta-
tion to their view. To insure a sufficient depth of the
river, so that destrifction might be made doubly sure, I
saw a great number of men, and some whom I knew to
be members of the church, laboriously turning their
respective contributions of the glowing and hissing tiquid
into the main channel. This was more than I could bear.
I was in perfect torture. But when I expostulated with
those who were nearest to the place where I stood, they
coolly answered, This is the way in %chich we get our
living.

But what shocked me more than all the rest, and
curdled every drop of blood in my veins, was the sight
which I had of this very distillery pouring out its tribu-
tary stream of fire ! And 0, it distracts, it maddens me to
think of it. There you yourself stood feeding the torrent
which had already swallowed up some of your own family,
and threatened every moment to sweep you away ! This
last circumstance brought me from the bed, by one con-
vulsive bound, into the middle of the room; and I awoke
in an agony which I verily believe I could not have sus-
tained for another moment.

Distiller. — I will feed the torrent no longer. The
fires of my distillery shall be put out. From this day,
from this hour, I renounce the manufacture of ardent
spirits for ever.

wmm

60 TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

DIALOGUE II.

WHOLESALE DEALEa'S COUNTINGROOM.

CoNSCiENOE. — (Looking over the lodgor with asoriouj
air.) What is that last iavoico from the West ladies ?

Bum-Dealer. — Only a few casks of fourth proof, for
particular customers.

Conscience. — And that domestic poison, via New Or-
leans ; and on the next page, that large consignment, via
Erie Canal?

Dealer. — 0, nothing but two smmll lots of prime whis-
key, such as we have been selling these twenty } oars.
But why these chiding inquiries ? They disquiet me ex-
ceedingly. And to tell you the plain truth, I am more
than half ofifended at this morbid inquisitiveness.

Conscience. — Ah, I am afraid, as I have often told
you, that this is a bad business ; and the more I think of
it^ the more it troubles me.

Dealer. — Why so? You are always preaching up in-
dustry as a Christian virtue, and my word for it, were I
to neglect my business, and saunter about the hotels and
steamboat wharves, as some do, you would fall into con-
vulsions, as if I had committed the unpardonable sin.

CONSOIENOE. — Such pettish quibbling is utterly unwor-
thy of your good sense and ordinary candor. You know,
as well as I do, the great difference between industry in
some safe and honest calling, and driving a business
which carries poverty and ruin to thousands of families.

Dealer. — Honest industry ! This is more cruel still.
You have known me too long to throw out such insinua-
tions ; and besides, it is notorious, that some of tho first
merchants in our city are engaged; far more extensively.
in the same traffic.

Conscience. — Be it so. " To their own Master they
stand or fall.'' But if fair dealing consists in ^' doing ^^
we would be done by," how can a man of your establi '
mercantile and Christian reputation sustain hilnself; i ^

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC.

nsorious
idles ?
roof, for

New Or-
ment, via

imo wills-
ty j^ars.
ct me ex-
im more

[ten told
think of

ig up in-
b, were I
tels and
ito con-
sin.

unwor-
u know,
ustry in
business
families,
lel still.
insinua*
)ho first
sttsively,

;er tliey
doinsj H
;abli
>lf,i

< ^

■*f

I * ^

continues to deal in an article which he knows to be more
destructive than all the plagues of Egypt ?

Dealer. — Do you intend, then, to make mc answerable
for all the mischief that is done by ardent spirit, in the
whole State and nation ? What 1 sell is a mere drop of
the bucket, compared with the consumption of a single
county. Where is the proof that the little which my
respectable customers carry into the country, with their
other groceries, ever does any harm ? How do you know
that it helps to make such a frightful host of drunkards
and vagabonds ? And if it did, whose fault would it be ?
I never gave nor sol^a glass of whiskey to a tippler in my
life. Let those who will drink to excess^ and make brutes
of themselves, answer for it.

Conscience. — Yes, certainly ihei/ must answer for it ;
but will that excuse those who furnish the poison ? Did
you never hear of abettors and accessories, as well as prin-
cipals in crime ? When Judas, in all the agony of remorse
and despair, threw down the thirty pieces of silver before
the chief priests and elders, exclaiming, I have sinned f in
that I have betrai/ed the innocent 6?oodf— they coolly an-
swered, WJiat is that tons? See thou to that. And was
it therefore nothing to them ? Had they no hand in that
cruel tragedy ? Was it nothing to Pilate — nothing to
Herod — nothing to the multitude who were consenting to
the crucifixion of the Son of God — because they did not
drive the nails and thrust the spear ?

0, when I think of what you are doing to destroy the
bodies and souls of men, I cannot rest. It terrifies me at
all hours of the night. Often and often, when I am just
losiag myself in sleep, I am startled by the most frightful
groans and unearthly imprecations, coming out of these
hogsheads. And then, those luijg processions of rough-
made cofl5ns and beggared ftimilies, which I dream of,
from rirriitfall till daybreak, they keep me all the while
Id sweat, and I can no longer endure them.
vLER. — Neither can I. Something must be done,
Vo avc been out of your head more than ^alf the time

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

for this six months. I have tried all the ordinary rem-
edies upon you without the least eilcot. Indeed, every
new remedy seems only to aggravate the disease. 0, what
would not I give for the discovery of some anodyne which
would lay these horrihle phantasms. The case would he
infinitely less trying, if I could sometimes persuade you, for
a night or two, to let me occupy a different appai^ment
from yourself for when your spasms come on, one might
as well try to sleep with emhers in his bosom, as where
you are.

Conscience. — Would it mend the matter at all, if, in
stead of sometimes dreaming, I were to be always wide
awake ?

Dealer. — Ah, there's the grand difficulty. For I find
that when you do wake up, you are more troublesome
than ever. Then you are always harping upon my being
a professor of religion, and bringing up some text of Scrip-
ture, which might as well be let alone, and which you
would not ring in my ears, if you had any regard to my
peace, or even your own. More than fifty times, within a
iDonth, have you quoted, " By their fruits ye shall knoxo
them." In fact, so uncharitable have you grown of late'
that from the drift of some of your admonitions, a stranger
would think me but little, if any, better than a murderer.
And all because some vagabond or other may possibly
happen to shorten his days by drinking a little of the
identical spirit which passes through my hands.

Conscience. — You do me barfe justice when you say
that I have often reproved you, and more earnestly of late,
than I formerly did. But my remonstrances have always
been between you and me alone. If I have charged you
with the guilt of hurrying men to the grave and to hell,
by this vile traffic, it has not been upon the house-top. I
cannot, it is true, help knowing how it grieves your breth-
ren, gratifies the enemies of religion, and excites the scorn
of drunkards themselves, to see your wharf covered with
the fiery element ; but I speak only in your own ears. To
yourself I have wishcvL to prove a faithful monitor; though

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC.

what

I have sad misgiyings, at timeS; even with regard to that.
You will bear me witness, however, that I have sometimes
trembled exceedingly, for fear that I should be compelled,
at last, to carry the matter up by indictment to the tribu-
nal of eternal Justice. **

To avoid this dreadful necessity, let me once more rea-
son the case with you in a few words. You know per-
fectly well, that ardent spirit kills its tens of thousands in
this Dominion every year : and there is no more room
to doubt that many of these lives are destroyed by the
very liquor which you sell, then if you saw them stagger-
ing under it into the drunkards' grave. How th«n can
you possibly throw oflf bloodguiltincss, with the light
which you now enjoy ? In faithfulness to your soul, and
to Him whose viceregent I am, 1 cannot say less, espe-
cially if you persist any longer in the horrible trafl&c.

Dealer. — Pardon me, my dear Conscience, if, under
the excitement of the moment, I complained of your hon-
est and continued importunity. Be assured, there is no
friend in the world with whom I am so desirous of main-
taining a good understanding as with yourself. And for
your relief and satisfaction, I now give you my solemn
pledge, that I will close up this branch of my business as
soon as possible. Indeed, I have commenced the process
already. My last consignments are less, by more than one
half, than were those of the preceding years ; and I intend
that, when another year comes about, my books shall speak
still more decidedly in my favor.

Conscience. — These resolutions would be perfectly
satisfactory, if they were in the present tense. But if it
was wrong to sell five hundred casks last year, how can it
be right to sell two hundred this year, and one hundred
next ^ If it is criminal to poison forty men at one time,
how « n it be innocent to popon twenty at another ? If
you may not throw a hundred firebrands into the city,
how will you prove that you may throw one ?
^ Dealer. — Very true, very true — but let us waive this
point for the present. It aflfects me very strangely.

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Conscience. — How long, theo, will it take to dry up
this fountain of death ?

Dealer. — Don't call it so, I beseech you ; but I intend
to be entirely out of the business in two or three years, at
farthest. "

Conscience. — Two or three years ! Can you, then,
after all that has passed between us, persist two or three
years longer in a contraband traffic ? I yerily thought,
that when we had that long conference two or three months
ago, you resolved to close the concern at once ; and that
when we parted, I had as good as your promise^ that you
would* Surely, you cannot so soon have forgotten it.

Dealer. — No, I remember that interview but too well ;
for I was never so unhappy in my life. I did almost re-
solve, and more than half promise, as you say. But after
I had time to get a little composed, I thought you had
pushed matters rather too far ; and that I could convince
you of it, at a proper time. I see, however, that the at-
tempt would be fruitless. But as I am anxious for a com-
promise, let me ask whether, if I give away all the profits
of this branch of my business to the Bible Society, and
other institutions, till I can close it up, you will not be
satisfied ?

Conscience. — Let me see. Five hundred dollars, or
one hundred dollars, earned to promote the cause of relig-
ion by selling poison ! By killing husbands, and fathers,
and brothers, and torturing poor women and children ! It
smells of blood — and can God possibly accept of such an
offering ?

Dealer. — So then, it seems, I must stop the sale at
once, or entirely forfeit what little charity you have left.

Conscience. — You must. Delay is death — death to
the consumer at least ; and how can you flatter yourself
that it will not prove your own eternal death ? My con-
victions are decisive, and be assured, I deal thus plainly
because I love you, and cannot bear to become your ever-
lasting tormentor. •

DEBATES OF COX>?CIENCE, ETC.

[ intend
^ears, at

r a com-

f3 profits

ty, and

not be

liars, or
of relig-
fathers,
ren ! It
mch an

sale at
ve left,
cath to
yourself
My con-
j plainly
ur ever-

DIALOGUE III.

AT THE retailer's STAND.

Conscience. — Do you know that little half-starved,
bare-footed child, that you just sent home with two quarts
of rank poison ?

(Retailer hums a tune to himself, and affects not to hear
the question.)

Conscience. — I see by the paper of this morning, that
the furniture of Mr. M is to be sold under the ham-
mer to-morrow. Have I not often seen him in your tap-
room ? ' '

Ketailer. — I am extremely busy just now, in bringing
up my ledger.

Conscience. — Have you beard how N abused his

family, and turned them all into the street the other
night, after being supplied by you with whiskey?

Ketailer. — He is a brutej and ought to be confined in
a dungeon six months at least, upon bread and water.

Conscience. — Was not S , wh'^ hung himself lately,

one of your steady customers ? and where do you think
his soul is now fixed for eternity ? You sold him rum
that evening, not ten minutes before you went to the
prayer-meeting, and had his money in your pocket — for
you would not trust him — when you led in the exercises.
I heard you ask him once, why he did not attend meeting,
and send his children to the Sabbath-school ; and I shall
never forget his answer. " Come, you talk like a minis-
ter ; but, after all, we are about of one mind — at least in
some things. Let me have my jug and be going.''

Retailer. — I know he was an impudent, hardened
wretch ; and though his death was extremely shocking, I
am glad to be rid of him^

Conscience. — Are you ready to meet him at the bar
of God, and to say to the Judge. " He was my neighbor
—J saw him going down the broad way, and 1 did every
thing that a Christian could do to save him?'/

^mmr

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Retailer. — (Aside. that I could stifle the upbraid-
ings of this cruel monitor.) You keep me in constant tor-
ment. This everlasting cant about rank poison^ and
liquid fir e^ and bloody and murder j is too much far even
a Christian to put up with. Why, if any body but Con-
science were to make such insinuations and charges, he
would be indictable as a foul slanderer, before a court of
justice.

Conscience. — Is it slander^ or is it because I tell you
the truth, that your temper is so deeply ruffled under my
remonstrances r Suppose I were to hold my peace, while
your hands are becoming more and more deeply crimsoned
with this bloody traffic. What would you say to me, when
you come to meet that poor boy who just went out, and
his drunken father, and broken-hearted mother, at the
bar of God? Would you thank your conscience for
having let you alone while there was space left for repent*
tance ?

Retailer. — Ah, had honest trader ever such a consci-
ence to deal with before ? Always just so uncompromising
—always talking about the ''golden rule" — always insist-
ing upon a moral standard which nobody can live up to —
always scenting poverty, murder, and suicide, in every
glass of whiskey, though it were a mile oflf. The truth is,
you are not fit to live in this world at all. Acting in con-
formity with your more than puritanical rules, would starve
any man and his family to death.

Conscience. — Well, here comes another customer —
see the carbuncles ! Will you fill his bottle with wrath,
to be poured oui without mixture, by and by, upon your
own head ? Do you not know that his pious wife is ex-
tremely ill, and suffering for want of every comfort, in
their miserable cabin ?

Retailer. — No, Mr. E , go home and take care of

your family. I am determine' to harbor no more drunk-
ards here.

Conscience. — You mean to make a distinction then,
do you, between harboring those who are already ruined.

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC,

and helping to destroy such as arc now respectable mem-
bers of society. You will not hereafter tolerate a single
drunkard on your premises; but —

Hetailer. — Ah, I see what you are aiming at; and
really it is too much for any honest man, and still more
for any Christian to bear. You know it is a long time
since I have pretended to answer half your captious ques-
tions. There's no use in it. It only leads on to others
still more impertinent and puzzling. If I am the hund-
redth part of that factor of Satan which you would make
me, I ought to be dealt with, and cast out of the church
at once ; and why don't my good brethren see to it ? '

Conscience. — That's a nard question, which they,
perhaps, better know how to answer than I do.

Retailer. — But have you forgotten, my good Con-
science, that in retailing spirit, I am under the immediate
eye and sanction of the laws. Mine is no contraband
traffic, as you very well know. I hold a license from^the
rulers and fathers of the state, and have paid my money
for it into the public treasury. Why do they continue to
grant and sell licenses, if it is wrong for me to sell rum ?

Conscience. — Another hard question, which I leave
them to answer as best they can. It is said, however,
that public bodies have no soul, and if they have no soul,
it is difficult to see how they can have any conscience ;
and if not, what should hinder themTrom selling licenses ?
but suppose the civil authorities should oflFer to sell you a
license to keep a gambling-house, or a brothel, would you
purchase such a license^ and present it as a salve to your
conscience?

Retailer. — I tell you once more, there is no use in
trying to answer your questions ; for say what I will, you
have the art of turning everything against me. It was
not always so, as you must very distinctly remember.
Formerly I could retail hogshead after hogshead of all
kinds of spirits, and you slept as quietly as a child. Bat
sUce yon began to read these Reports and Tracts about
drinking, and to attend Temperance meetings, I havQ

rilki

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

scarcely had an hour's peace of my life. I feared that
EomethiDg like this would be the effect upon year nervous
temperament, when you began ; and you may recollect
that I strongly objected to your troubling yourself with
these new speculations. It now grieves me to think that
I ever yielded to your importunity ; and beware that you
do not push me to extremities in this matter, for I have
about come to the resolution that I will have no more of
these mis3hievous pamphlets, either about my store or
tavern ; and that your temperance agents may declaim to
to the winds and walls, if they please.

Conscience. — I am amazed at your blindness and obsti-
nacy. It is now from three to five years since I began to
speak — though in a kind of indistinct undertone at first —
against this bloody traffic. I have reasoned, I have re-
monstrated, and latterly I have threatened and implored
with increasing earnestness. At times you have listened,
and been convinced that the course which you ^re pur-
suing, in this day of light, is infamous, and utterly incon-
sistent with a Christian profession ; but before your con-
victions and resolutions have time to ripen into action, the
love of monei/ regains its ascendency ; and thus have you
gone on reiolving^ and relajpiing^ and re-resolving^^oJie
hour at the preparatory lecture, and the next unloading
whiskey at your door ; one moment ;mourning over the
prevalence of iutemprance, and the next arranging your
decanters to entice the simple ; one day partaking of the
cup of the Lord at his table, and the next offering the
cup of devils to your neighbors ; one day singing,

*' All that I hare, and all 1 am, • ^

I consecrate to Thee,"

and the next, /or (he sake of a little gain, sacrificing your
character, and polluting all you can induce to drink ! 0,
how can I hold my peace ? How can I let you alone ? If
you will persist, your blood, and the blood of those whom
you thus entice and destroy, be upon your own head.

DEBATES OF CONSCIENCE, ETC.

Whether you will hear, or whether you will forbear, I
shall not cease to remonstrate ; and when I can do no
more to reclaim you, I will sit down at your gate, in the
bitterness of despair, and cry, Murder ! Murder ! ! MUR-
DER ! ! !

Retailer. — (Pale and trembling.) "Go thy way for
this time ; when I have a conyenient season, I will call
for thee/'

>•'«••••.

-up

/ •

THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER.

BY MR. J. E. MCCONAUOHY.

STELLA
HATTIE
OLIVE.

€l)aracUrs.

•
•

SCHOOL-GIRLS.

RUTH.
LUCY.

SUSAN.

■"*•■■

SCENE I.

A school play-ground, — Enter Stella ^ Ollve^ Lx'xy,

and Ruth.

Stella. — You may say what you please, girls, I will
never consent to have Harriet Cook invited to our picnic ;
it is to be quite a select affair, and I for one do not choose
to associate with drunkard's children. She has no busi-
ness in our school at all. The public school is the place
for her — mother says so. She is surprised that Miss
Harrington takes her.

Lucy. — But it is no fault of hers, Stella, that her fath-
er drinks ; I am sure she is one of the nicest, sweetest
girls in school, and one of the best scholars too. I am
sure she has helped you often enough over your arith-
metic, to have you speak more kindly of her.

Stella. — Dear me ! I do not know that I am obliged
to associate with her as an equal on that account. My
father is very particular whom I associate with. You

THE drunkard's DAUGHTER.

unj,

5, I will

picnic ;
b choose
10 busi-
e place
it Miss

er fatli-

jweetcst

I am

' arith-

obliged
it. My

You

ought to have seen old Jimmy Cook staggeriog home the
other night \ he went past our house with a pack of
boys following him, pulling bis hair and teasing him in
every way they could. It was funny to see him clutch
after them^ and try to strike them \ but the boys were too
quick for him. Tbey only shouted and laughed, and told
him to try again. I laughed till I cried, and father came
and stood beside mo, and laughed too, as heartily as I did.

Olive. — Poor, poor Hattie ! I do hope she did not
;5ce him.

Stella.. — But she did, I know, for I saw her on the
opposite side of the street, hurrying on with her vail pull-
ed over her face. I hoped she would not put on quite so
nany airs after it, and think herself as good as any body
else, but it don't seem to have done her much good.

OiLVE. — {Indignantly.) For shame, Stella ! Have you
10 heart ? As if it was the poor girl's fault ; and as for
putting on airs, that is what Hattie never does; she only
maintains a decent self respect, if she does carry an aching
heart in her breast. "We should be careful about rejoicing
over the misfortunes of another^ for trouble may come to
us when we look for it the least.

Stella. — Dear mo, what a croaker ! I presume now
she expects my father to turn drunkard, and go reeliilg
through the streets, just because I laughed at Jimmy
Cook. My father is a gentleman, and would never stoop
to anything so degrading as to drink loW; poisoned
liquors. He never has anything but the finest wines on
his side-board, and they arc often four or five dollars a
bottle.

Ruth. — But people can become intemperate just as
well on wine as on whiskey. It is not a whit less dan-
gerous.

Stella.— Suppose you set up for a temperance lecturer ;
you know it is quite a fashion for ladies to lecture. You
are tall and good-looking, and a good elocutionist, and I
know you would make quite a sensation. "

Ruth. — My first point will be, then, to urge you all to

TEMPEBA^X^E DIALOGUES.

bo kind to the drunkard's children. By all means let us
ask Hattie to our picniC; and make the day as bright as
we can for her.

Stella. — (J/i/c/t offended,) Then you will have to dis-
pense with my company; I assure you.

Ruth. — We will try and bear it with as much resigaa-
tion as possible.

Stella. — You are very sarcastic, Miss Davis; but I
can tell you, mother shall not send the elegant basket of
cake she has prepared for it, nor a single strawberry from
our vines.

Olive. — Oh ! don't worry about that, dear ; we have
more strawberries and cake promised than we can possiblj
use. But, Stella, think better of it, and come, you'll lose
80 much pleasure, and you know you needn't speak a word
to Hattie if you don't want to. Only don't treat he!
rudely, for that is very wrong, and I know it would ofifenc
half the girls in school ; they all love Hattie.

Stella. — (^Leaving angrily.) They are welcome to —
a drunkard's daughter, indeea ! I think things have
come to a pretty pass in our school when she is preferred
before 2i gentleman* s daughter.

Ruth. — Worth before station any time, Stella. {Exit
Stella^ slamming the door.)

Lucy. — You were almost too hard, Ruth.

Ruth. — I know it, but her airs are unendurable. But,
poor girl, she may see sorrow herself, before many days.
Her father spends nearly all his evenings at the club, and
plays and takes wine most immoderately. I do not think
she suspects such a thing as that he can possibly be in
danger. But girls, we must make haste, for I see Miss
Harrington coming up the walk. She likes to have us all
in our places as soon as the bell rings. t^I^xit girls-^
a bell ringing.)

THE drunkard's DAUGHTER.

SCENE II.

Recitation Room. — Hattie, Olive, Lucy weaving
wreathifor thejjtcnic,

Olivk. — Ilattie, please help me twine in this myrtle ;
I can never get it to suit myself, but your fingers have
the knack of making every thing fit in right.

Hattie. — I think you are doing very well, Olive, but
I will help^ou if I can. There, how will that please
you I How lovely those carnations are ! Look, girls.
(She Jits the wreath on Olivers head.)

Lucy. — It is perfect. Don't stir a leaf, Hattie. But
here comes Susan Lee. Do, pray, girls, be careful what
you say, she does make so much trouble repeating things;
and it seems to mo nothing ever goes on that she doesn't
know.

" - (Enter Susan.)

Susan. — There, girls, are all the flowers I had time to
gather. Mother sent me over to Mrs. Nippers* to get the
particulars of that awful affair that's just happened, and
I was tired clear out when I came home.

Girls. — What awful affair ? Do tell us ! Anybody
killed ?

Susan. — Well, not quite, I suppose, but pretty near.
It all happened at that club, which was thought to be
&uch a wonderfully aristocratic affair. Stella's father,
you know, is called one of the best players at cards in
town ; nobody ever beats him. But it happened that he
was playing with a gentleman who had not been very long
in the club, and they say he lost and l90t,oh ! I can't tell
you how much money ; but the more he lost the more
angry he got, and risked larger and larger sums, until the
man swept all his property. Then he told the man he
was a cheat and a liari and they came to blows. Tou
know Stella's father is a large, strong man, and the other
was very slight, so he was very much hurt before any one
could or would interfere. Some people say the man will

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

die, but I can't pretend to say. But one thing wo arc
sure of, Mr.Kosylin is safe in jail and I guess Stella won't
hold her head quite so high, and lord it over the rest of
us quite so much as she used to.

Olive. — Uvh, Susan, do, Don't let us speak hard
thing<i of her, now she is in such trouble. I am sure I
pity her with all my heart.

Hattie. — Poor Stella ! I would do any thing in the
world I could to comfort her.

Susan. — I guess it would comfcrt her the most never to
see the face of one of us again. You certainly don't^owe
her any good-will, Hattie, of all the rest.

Hattie. — I am sure I have not the slightest ill-will
towards her, and am truly sorry for her trouble j most
likely the story is much exaggerated,

Susan. — Most likely the half is not known.

Lucy. — Well, whatever the truth proves to be, girls,
we will always treat Stella as kindly as ever ; for, whatever
she may have maintained to the contrary, children are
not responsible for the faults of their parents. They may
suffer for them, but they are not to blame for them. But
now we must gather up our wreaths, girls, for the car-
riages are coming, and we can finish them in the woods.
(^Exeunt, omnes,)

\ .

WHITE LIE8.

€l)ara(Uvs.

MR. CARR.

HORACE.

MARK.

Horace. — Father, what is a %chite lie?

Mr. Carr. — There is do .«3ueh thing, Horace. A lie is
always black and wicked.

Mark. — But, Father, I have heard people talk about
white lies, too.

Horace. — When Harry Howell had his cousin to tea
last week, he told us he had a large party, and when we
found him out, he said it was only a white lie, anyhow.

Mark. — And Mr. Haynes, when he said the old rooster
he sold last market day was a young chicken, said it was
only a white lie.

Mr. Carr. — What is a lie, Horace ?

Horace. — A false statement, intended to deceive ; you
told us that, long ago.

Mr. Carr. — What was Harry Howell's statement, and
that of Mr. Haynes ? True statements ?

Horace. — No sir ; they were false.

Mr. Carr. — Intended to deceive ?

Horace.— Yes sir.

Mr. Carr. — Then they were lies I Never try to soothe
your conscience with such mistaken ideas, as that the mag-
nitude or importance of a lie, makes any difference in its
guilt. A half lie, or quarter of a lie, is as bad as a whole
one. Remember that

Mark. — But, father, many boys who would not tell a
deliberate falsehood, will twist the truth, or evade it, to
deceive a little bit.

TEMPERANCE DIAtiOuUES.

Mr. Carr. — That is just as bad.

Horace. — It is very cowaruly.

Mr. Carr. — If a toy does anything wrong, fntcntion-
ally or accidentally, tiirough carelessness, perhaps, or be-
cause he was ignorant of the consequences of his fault,
and then tries to shuffle out of his scrape by evasion or
deceit, he is as guilty of falsehood, as if he had made a
direct denial of his guilt. He doubles the burden on his
conscience, by adding to his first fault the sin of lying.

Horace. — But, father, our teacher is so very strict, that
the boys, many of thein, are afraid to own a fault.

Mr. Carr. — Is he less strict, when he finds he baa
been deceived ?

Mark. — Indeed he is not ?

Mr. Carr. — Then the penalty is greater, as well as the
sin.

Horace. — Some of the boys look mean enough when
he catches them in an untruth.

Mark. — B;\t, father, are not exaggerations, stories
made up about people, little incidents magnified into great
events, white lies i

Me. Carr. — No, Mark. When the line is passed, by
even a hair's breadth, that divides truth from falsehood,
there is no shading of di£ference in the grades of that
falsehood. What is not true is false, and a lie is a lie, be
it big or little, important or trivial.

Mark. — But you would not like to say that a person
who simply exaggerates is a liar ?

Mr. Carr. — Yes ; such is the truth. A person who
habitually indulges in exaggeration or story-telling is mean
and worthless, despicable both to his fellow-men and in
the eyes of his Maker.

Horace. — And I have noticed, too, father, when they
once pass the barrier of truth, that they keep adding lie
to lie, till they are so entangled that they must be de-
tected.

Mr. Carr. — It is certainly much easier to speak the
tiUth, than to invent even the most plausible falsehood.

WHITE LIES.

against

Strive, my sons, always to guard against the least devia-
tion from the exact truth. Nothing is more beautiful
than a tifithful boy, and you v^ill find no one more re-
spected.

Mark. — That is so. I do not believe you could torture
Leon Henderson into telling a lie, and all the boys respect
him, though some of them pretend to sneer at him.

Horace. — And our teacher will take his word
the strongest oircumsta tial evidence.

Mr. Carr. — How proud his father must be of such &
boy !

Horace. — We will try, father, to give you the same
cause for pride.

Mark. — We will indeed, father.

Mr. Carr. — Do so, my boys. Be truthful, candid, and
above deceit Never try to palliate falsehood by thinking
it is not so bad as it might me. All lies are alike, and
above all, recollect that in the sight of God, there are no
white lies. [ Ctirtain falls.

1 >
I', i

ijit
I

THE TRIAL OF ALCOHOL.

CIIAUGED WITH MURDEft, ROBBEIIV; AC,

Siqircmc Court of Public Opinion.

The People ") Hon. R. Candor, Chief Justice.

vs. V Hon. S. Impartiality

Alcohol, ) Hon. G. Patience,
Hon. H. Honesty.

Associate
Justices.

^ Counsel for the People — J. Goodwill, Att'y Gen.
Council for Defendant — Squire Self-Interest.

The jury, twelve good men, being sworn, the prisoner
was brought to the bar, and the Clerk read the Indictment.

Clerk. — May it please the Court, the Indictment
charges the prisoner —

1. — With swindling and taking money under false pretences.

2. — With being a frequenter of gambling houses and other vile
places, and a great cause there of disorder and crime.

3. — With being a family disturber, breaking up domestic peaco
and happiness.

4. — Depriving many men of their reason, and causing them to
commit suicide.

5. — Reducing many families to pauperism and shame.

6. — Causing a thousand murders every year, and filling up poor-
houses and mad-houses with ruined victims.

7. — With opposing the blessed gospel and dragging many soula
.-sHWl^to death and hell.

Prisoner, what is your plea, guilty or not guilty ?
Prisoner.— Not guilty.

its

TRIAL OF ALCOHOL.

Clerk. — How will you be tried ?

Prisoner. — By God and my country.

GLERK.^—God send you a good deliverance.

Attorney General. — May it please the Court and
Gentlemen of the Jury, the prisoner is charged with a
variety of heiaous crimes — with being a disturber of the
public peace, a seducer, a robber, a murderer, both of the
bodies and the souls of men. I shall not detain you with
a* long speech, but substantiate the truths of the indict-
ment by good and true i^vitnesses. I first call Mr. ^asy-
mind.

Mr. Easymind do you know the prisoner? Can you
tell anything about him ?

Witness. — I can. Sir ; for I have suffered much from
him. He was often at my father's house and he professed
much medical skill, dnd when my wife was sick, he prom-
ised a cure, but made her a drunkard and I forbade him
my house.

Att'y Gen. — Have you any sons ?

Wi'^'NESS. — Yes, Sir, three; but I have not muchcom-
foi ir} them, for they are constantly drawn away by the
prisoner to scenes of drinking, horse-racing and gam-
bling.

Att'y Gen. — How do they come home ?

AViTNESS. — Often drunk at the midnight hour.

Squire Self-Interest. — You say he made your wife
a drunkard. Do you know he did ? Kcmember, Sir, you
aro on your oath.

Witness.— Why if he didn't, who did ?

Squire S. I. — That is not answering the question. Do
you know he made her a drunkard ? Can you swear she
was not born one ?

Witness. — I know that she was not one till she began
to take his medicines.

Squire S. I.— You say he ruined your sons ; were they
not vicious before they became acquainted with him ?

Witness. — No, Sir ; never were bett r boys.

-UiJ

i i

^ii

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Att'y Gen.— Mr. Sobermind, do you know the prison-
er at the bar ?

Witness. — I once did, to my sorrow. He found me '
an industrious, bard*labouring young man. He took me
to the tavern, the store, the saloon — I tremble to think
what he did for me. He got all my money out of my
pockets, and my clothes from my back. I became under
nis leadings a vile drunkard, and slept in barns and be-
hind barrels; but I quit him, Sir, and since then I have
come up to be again what I was.

Att' r Gen. — What does he do with families ?

Witness. — It would take me a year to tell the sorrow
and trouble he gives.

Att't Gen. — Did you ever know him to divide hus-
band and wife ?

Witness. — Yes, Sir, in many cases.

Att'y Gen. — Bid he ever cause a murder in your
neighborhood ?

Witness. — Yes, Sir, in many cases. But we could
never get him indicted and tried because he had so many
friends.

Squire S. I.— You say you are now his enemy.

Witness. — Yes, Sir. And if I could get him expelled
from the country I would.

Squire S. I. — May it please the Ccurt; I object to
this witness. He testifies under strong hos'^ity, and he
cannot be expected to speak the truth. His testimony
should not be received by the jury.

Att'y Gen. — Squire Coke, you have been at the bar
many years ; what do you know of the prisoner ?
' . Witness. — I know that, but for him we lawyers should
soon starve.

. Att'y Gen. — Please explain what you mean.

Witness. — Mean ? I mean what I say ; for more than
two-thirds of our criminal cases are caused by bim ; nearly
all the fights and murders are his work.

Squire S. I. — Did he not keep you, by all the vote*

\':

TRIAL OF ALCOHOL.

he cast; from being a Congressman? Did not all the lum
j^men go against you ?

Witness. — Yes, Sir. And it was the proudest day of

my life.

Squire 3. I. — Gentlemen of the Jury, }T3u see under
what influence he testifies. His testimony is good for
nothing.

Att'y Gen. — Mr. Lovetruth, you have been a collector
of taxes ; what has the prisoner had to do with the taxa-
tion of the town ?

Witness. — He has caused more than one half of it,
We have twenty-five paupers all charged to him, and a
jail full, and many casualties by fire and wrecks are caused
by him for which the town must pay. And since no re-
straint has been laid upon him, the taxeis have been increas-
ed double.

Squire S. I. — Do you suppose there would be no taxes
among Cold Water men ? How much did the Croton Water
Works cost?

' witness FOR THE DEFENCE.

Squire S. I. — Mr. Animal Appetite, please state what
you know of this gentleman.

Witness. — He is the best friend I ever hiid, Sir. He
always gives me good cheer and cures me of all my dis-
eases. I could not live without him.

Att'y Gen. — Did he never kill any body ?

Witness. — That is no concern of mine, Sir, Roast
beef and plum pudding will kill men if they cat too
much.

Squire S. I. — I would call, may it please the Court,
upon Mr. Lovegain. What is the influence of thi^ gentle-
man upon the trade of the country y

Witness. — Oh, it has increased it mightily, Sir. We
have made more money by this gentleman, than by any
cotton speculation or anything else. His liquor draws
out more money than all the cotton and tobacco together.

1 1

:<■

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES,

Att'y Gen. — And what does he give for the money he
gets ? Anything valuable ?
Witness. — That's nothing to me, Sir. ^

Att'y Gen. — Is he not then a thief and a robber ?
May it please the Court, you have heard all the wit-
nesses for the defence, and they amount to nothing. I
shall now, without argument, submit the case.
Chief Justice Candor charges the Jury —
Gentlemen of the Jury : You have hfeard the Indict-
ment and the witnesses for and against him. You will
render a verdict according to your consciences. I commit
the fate of the prisoner to you.

When the Jury came in the Clerk said-
Foreman, what is your verdict — guilty or not guilty ?
Foreman.— Guilty ?

SENTENCE OF THE COURT.

Judge — Mr. Prisoner, stand up. You are pronounced
guilty of the enormous charges which have been brought
against you, and you will be taken hence from the place
whence you came, in rum puncheons, and there be cast
into a vat of Cold Water. And may you die and be for-
gotten forever.

!<' 1

A TLEA FOE THE PLEDGE.

FOn TWO UALE3.

Jo UN. — There is much talk about Temperance Societies ;
but I thiuk few people quite understand them, except those
who are members thereof. I am not quite sure that 1 am
well informed oa the subject, and as you are a member,
perhaps you will be good enough to explain what a Tem-
peiance Society is.

Thomas. — With pleasure. It consists of a number of
persons who have agreed not to use alcoholic drinks, who
have signed a pledge to that effect, and have formed them«
selves into a Society to strengthen each other's hands, and
to induce others to follow their example.

John. — But why give up the drink altogether ? Can
not men take it or leave it alone ? It is the abuse, not
the use, that does the harm, is it not 'i

Thomas. — The use, as it is called, leads to the abuse.
Drunkenness is only the result of drinking. Our country
abounds with sad proofs of this.

John. — But do you mean to say that men can be strong,
do their work, and bear fatigue and exposure a« well with-
out the drink as with it ?

Thomas. — There is no doubt about it now, at least
among those who are properly informed on the subject.
The brick-makers, anchor-smiths, harvest- men, etc., in
various parts, have tried it and succeeded admirably.

.5.

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

John. — But all who drink do not become drunkards.

Thomas. — Truly ; nor do all gamblers lose their money
and character j but many of them do ; and as there is great
danger of my doing so, therefore I abstain. Besides,
Tvhat can be done better without, should be avoided, es-
pecially when the doing it might involve me and others in
trouble.

John. — I think your temperance people make too much
of drink ; you say there are not less than sixty thousand
drunkards in the land, and that about sixty thousand die
every year.

Thomas. — This may seem a very strong statement, but
it is only doubted by those who love the drink, and have
taken little pains to get at the factn.

JonN,— Then you say that at least one hundred millions
of money are spent, directly and indirectly, in this drink.
Now think of that enormous sum ! It can not be.

Thomas. — It's all very well for you to say it can not
he ; but that assertion has never yet been called in ques-
tion by any competent authority. Allow me to say I do
not think you are one.

John. — But if so many persons were made drunkards
every year, should wc not have many more of them about
than there are ?

Thomas. — Thousands of them are imprisoned for crime,
and thousands more shut up in lunatic asylums. They
are a short-lived race and die off quickly.

John. — Then what becomes of their wives, widows,
and families ?

Thomas. — Why, in many cases, they become a town
charge, while in others they are taken care of by their
friends and the benevolent public. The pauperism of
this country, from drink, is fearful.

John. — What is a pauper ?

Thomas. — A person who, being unable to procure footl,
clothcFj and f-helter, is provided with them by the tax-
payers.

^SfOtSJBttBSif-

mi n «-i wpwei

A PLEA FOR fHE PLEDGE.

John. — But do you not think you arc too hard upon-
tho drink when you say it produces scven-tcnthb of the
crime of this country?

TnoMAS. — No. Facts prove it j and facts arc stubborn
things. Besides, who ought to be better informed on these
matters than the judges of the land ? They confirm this
opinion.

John. — If Temperance Societies have done so much
good as you and your friends say ih.j have, how is it that
all good people do not join you ?

Thomas. — Because prejudice, appetite, custom, and in-
terest withold the light from them. They are human, and
therefore err. But there is much improvement in this
respect, and we must hope on.

tJoHN. — When and where were the Temperance Societies
first instituted ?

Thomas. — About fifty years ago in this country of re-
forms. They first merely rejected ardent spirits, but now
we have grafted the teetotal principle on to their anti-spirit
system.

John. — Before we part, there is one other point on
which I wish to have a little information. I do not like
your pledge. If people choose to abstain, why not do so
without a pledge ? It seems so unmanly.

Thomas. — It is just the contrary, and gives proof that
he who has hitherto been r med away by his appetite and
by the customs of society, has at last awakened to tho
dignity of independence and manhood, and assertod his
determination to be free. That is manly.

John. — But does not taking a pledge destroy moral
freedom and responsibility ?

Thomas. — Certainly not; no more than engagements
and pledges of any other kind. It has proved a great boon
to many a poor drunkard, who, struggling with innumer-
able temptations within and around him, has thus, by
Ood's blessing, been enabled to abstain ; perhaps, at first,
only because lie had pledged himself; but afterward con-
tinued, because, he saw it was right to do so. But while I

TEMPERANCE DIALOOUEB.

am on this point, excuse me one moment longer wliile I saj,
that of all the means of deliverance and of safety in this
our probationary state, if any one in God's revealed word
stands out in bolder relief than another, it is the system
of pledges, covenants, and promises. He has given it His
sanction by His examples, entering into solemn covenant
with many, and giving pledges for its fulfilment. So also
the patriarchs, and prophets, and apostles, and kings, and
people, throughout the Scriptures, are to be found uniting
in pledges and covenants; and invariably without ex-
ceptiuiif when these pledges and covenants for good objects
have been kept, the blessing of God has attended
them. (Exit.)

\ I

;

I • • ' • • •

81.

THE TRY COMrANY.

BY REV. G. BOWLEfl?

[^Jamcs lounf/litfj on the staje, whittUng. Enter ^
Samuel.']

Samuel. — Hallo ! Jemmy ; come, let's go down to old
Rogers, and help him to get in his wood. You know how
old ho is, and he can't do much — let's go down and
help him.

James. — Oh ! I can't; it's too hard work getting in
wood ; besides, I'd rather sit still than work, any timo.

Samuel. — Yes, but ycu know that the more you eit
still, the more we want to ; and if we never stir our
stumps, we shall never get to be anything in the world.
For my part, I want to be somebody, and I mean to be.
Come ! come along ; lot's go and help the old man.

James. — No, I can't I don't want to help other folks.
It's as much as I can do to help myself; besides, I've got
lots of work to do at home — wood to split and coal to
sift, and and all sorts of things. You may go if you're a
mind to, but I shan't.

Samuel. — Well, Jemmy, if you've got work to do of
your own, I won't urge you j but I thought as you sat
here whittling, that you had nothing else to do. I shouldn't
think that was the way to get work done up.

James. — Oh, well ; I don't like to work. I wish there
was n't any such thing as work. This pushing, and pull-
ing, and working, and studying, aint the thing I like ;
besides, I never can make anything go. My wood is al-
ways full of knots, and I can never find the axe when I

^^'\%^^.%

IMAGE EVALUATION
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Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

L<?

t<*/

TEMPERANO« DIALOGUES.

;

want it; and if I try to dig in the garden, it's always full
of stones and old roots ; and I aint agoing to trouble my-
self about work, now I tell ye.

Samuel. — Well, Jemmy, I can't stop to talk with you
now, for we boys are going to form a Try Company, and
after that we shall get in old Roger's wood for him. I
think the best thing you can do will be to join us, and see
if you can't wake fip a little, and find out how to make
work seem like play. You'd better believe that's a good
deal pleasanter than 't is to lounge round all day, and say,
I can't work, and I don't want to do this and that. Here
come the boys, now — some of the wide-awake ones.

[Enter Hiram and William with sashes on.]

Hiram. — Hallo ! Sam ; I'm glad you're on hand so
early, and Jim, too — I didn't expect to see him here ; but
if he's going to break up his *old grumbling habits and
join our Try Company, I'm glad to have him — the more
the merrier, you know.

James. — Oh, you needn't trouble yourself about me,
Hiram ; I've no notion of joiuing your Try Company.
"What's the use of trying, when there's s(5 many things to
do that a fellow can't count 'em ? I'm just agoing to let
everything slide, and I guess it'll be all the same a hun-
dred years from now.

William. — I guess it won't be all the same a hundred
years from now, James ; for you know the more a man does
for himself, the more he is able to do ; and if his strength
is increased by labor, so is his happiness increased as the
fruit of his labor. Besides we haven't got to-do every-
thing at once. If we look at all kinds of work at once,
it may seem hard. You know when they were building
the big chimney over at the glass house, the masons laid
only one brick at a time, and it was n't long before the
whole were laid. A man can't jump over a mountain,
but if he keeps on, taking one step at a time, he will soon
get over it. So I've made up my mind to belong to the
Try Company, and if I can't do everything at once, 111

THE TFvY COMPANY

just do one thing at a time^ and so in time I'll get all done
that I want to do.

Hiram. — Well, Sam, you know you're to be corporal :
now what's the order of the day ?

Samuel. — Well, we must have material to form a com-
pany out of, so I've appointed John Green and William
Brown recruiting officers, and they are to be here with all
the boys they can gather, at 3 o'clock, 'and it's time for
them now. Hark ! don't you hear them coming ?

[^Enter fourteen ho^s, two with sashes. Corporal Try
puts on his sash.J^

John Green, — Corporal Try, we have brought to you
these boys, who wish to be enrolled as members of your
Try Company. I did not happen to have a copy of the
rules with me, but if you will read them I think they will
all agree to them, for they are boys of the right stamp.

Samuel. — Well, boys, I'm glad to have so large an ad-
dition to our number, for I hope we shall encourage and
help each other. Kecruiting officer Brown will read our
rules to you.

Brown. — [^Takes the hoohf and reads."] Rule 1st.
When we have anything to do that wc ought to doj never
sai/j 1 can't.

Eule 2nd. When we have any thing to do that ice
ought to do, always say^ I'll Tey.

Rule 3rd. When we have anything to do that we ought
to dOf always do it be/ore play.

Rule 4ith. N^ver do what we are satisfied we ought
not to do.

Rule bih. Never ask anybody else to do what we can do
ourselves as well as not.

Rule 6th, Never put off till tomorrow what we can do
to-day.

These are our particular rules; but besides these, we
have a noble swarm of '< Bees,'' which we call our general
rules. They are as follows : Be gentle. Be kind, Be cour-
teous, Be truthful, Be honest, Be diligent.

W'^

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Samuel. — Now, if you agree to these rules, hold up
your hands. The Orderly will please enter these names
on the record.

[Hirain takes his scat, as Orderly, and tie I'yucaU their names in
order, ae/olleics ;]

1. Archippus Akenside.

2. Barzillai 13 ighthopes.

3. Chalcedon Champney.

4. Didymus Dotheboy.

5. Entychus Entwistlc.

0. Frederic Filchnothing.

7. Gregory Gregorson.

8. Hogarth Ilarkaway.

9. Ichabod Ireson.

10. Jonathan JenkiDson.
IJ.. Kirk Kickman.
12. Lysander Littleton.

Samuel. — You may now assume the badge of our Com-
pany, [passes the hadges to cacli^ and form a line to re-
ceive some visitors that I see approaching. [Boys hang
their hadges on their sash"]

[Enter five large girls, \cith a banner."]

\st girl. — Corporal Try : The young ladies have felt a
desire to encourage you in your enterprise, and have there-
fore prepared a banner, and delegated us to present it to
you. I do not know how to make a speech, and so I will
tell you a story, and then we will all, if you please, join
in[singing a song, and I hope this will do instead : — " Far-
mer Jones had a large field, which he ploughed and plant-
ed with corn, and cultivated with great care, hoping to
find from it a good support for his family. But after all
his work, the corn began to wither and droop for want of
rain. He felt very sad and every day he went over and
looked at it, and then looked up to see if there was no
hope of rain. One day, as he stood looking up, and al-
most in despair, two little raindrops up in a cloud right
over his head, saw him, and one said to the other, ' Look

up
ames

jom

THE TRY COMPANY.

.'ll

at the poor farmer; I feel sorry for Lim. He lias taken
such pains with his field of corn, and now it's all drying
up. I wish I could do him some good.' 'Yes/ said the
other J ^but you are only a little raindrop ; what can you
do ? You can't even wet one hillock.' * Well/ said the
first, * to be sure, I can't do much, but I can cheer the
farmer a little, at any rate, and I'm resolved to do my
best — I'll try. I'll go down to the field to show my good-
will, if nothing more ; and so here I go.' And down
went the raindrop, and came pat on the farmer's nose.

* Dear me !' said the farmer, putting his finger on his nose,

* what's that ? A raindrop ! Where did that come from ?
1 do believe we shall have a shower,* No sooner had the
first one started, then the second said, 'Well, if you
are going, I believe I'll go too; here I come.* And
down he dropped on a cornstalk: By this time, a great
many raindrops had come together to hear what their com-
panions were talking about, and when they saw them go-
ing to cheer the farmer and water the corn, one said, 'If
you're going on such a good errand, I'll go too. Look
out ! Here I come !' 'And 1 1' said another. 'And 1 1'
'And I !' 'And I !' and so on, till a whole shower of them
came and watered the corn, and it grew and ripened, and
all because the first little raindrop determined to do what
it could." Now, Corporal, when you and your Company
look on this banner, we hope you will keep up good heart,
and never be discouraged because you can't do much ; for
if you do what you can, angels can do no more.

Corporal. — We thank you, young ladies, for this ex-
pression of your sympathies; and, as you have requcf^ted,
we will join you in singing.

^ In strength do we come and in number appear,
Sarroundingf our banner with joyful acclaim,
Proclaiming our freedom ; no longer we fear, /

No slave to " I can't" shall e'er share in our fame.

Chorus.

The cause that we love, triumph it must!

With the brave be our motto, " in God is our trust ;"

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Then long may the Trj Comp'ny banner still wave,
" O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave"

In our own land of freedom, be it ever the same,
Future agea shall read, and rejoice in the story ;

Our Try Comp'ny system shall gain us a name.
And religion shall wreathe our young brows with its glory.

[Girh retire, heariiifj the temperance banner.]

good

grand

oc-

Aken.side. — NoW; Corporal, Try, I feci p
to-day, and I guess we all do, and I propose tL
go down to the street and procure the material
monument on this spot, to commemorate this
casion.

Littleton. — I second that proposal, for I do believe
that we ought to commemorate this occasion. Our fathers
celebrate their great days — 24th of May, 18th of June, and
1st of July, — and I thing we ought to celebrate the forma-
tion of our Try Company — at least, let us raise a monu-
ment to-day.

Samuel.... Very well, boys ; I shall direct the Orderly
to lead you, and while you are gone, I wish to persuade
James to join us too. [Company march off in ordevj un-
der command of Eir am. 1 Now, Jemmy, come and joinf
our little band, and see if it won't be a good thing. If
you only mako up your mind to it, you will find work go
easy enough.

JameS/— Well, Sam, I don't know but I would if I
hadn't got such a habit of saying I can't, and knocking
things around so. I should forget the rules a dozen times
a day, and then mother would say, " There's a pretty
member of the Try Company ;" and that would make me
crosS; you know, and I should sulk round worse i;han ever.

Samuel. — Oh, well, never mind. Perhaps it would
come rather hard at first, but after a while, you know, you'd
learn to say " Try again," and then things would go easy
enough.

Jambs. — Well, perhaps I'll join : but you'll have to put
me into the awkward squad, I guess, and I hope you won't

THE TRY COMPANY.

have a very heavy fine for breaking the rules, for if you
do, I shall be dead broke in a short time.

Samuel — That's right, Jemmy. [^HanJs him a msJij
and puts on his own.'] But here come the boys back
again, and I should thick they meant to have a grand
monument.

[^Enter hoys as follows : 1st. Hiram as Orderly, and
Champney by his side. 2nd. Four hoys — B -own^ Green ^
William and Akenside, hearing the base. — Si'd, Dothchoy,
with a plummet. — ith. Two hoysj Entioistle and Filch-
nothing ^ icith columns, Industry and Truth. — bth. Bryjht-
h,op€s, with hanner.—Qth. Two boys- - Gregorson and Hark-
away, loith columns, Honesty and Courtesy. — *lth Tioo
hoys — Ireson and KicJcman, with the entablature. — 8/y^.
Jenkinson, with the cap-stone. — 9thj Littleton. The base
is laid in its place ; the hoys with columns, set them down
at a little distance from each corner ; the entablature and
Cap-stone at one side."]

Champney. — Corporal Try, we bring you the base o^
oai monument. On its several sides it bears the mottoes,
" Be Gentle," " Be Kind," " Be Merciful," '[ Be Good."
Without the virtues here indicated, we think it impossible
to establish a good name among men, and we wish this
structure to remind us of all those virtues and principles
which should have place in the life of a true Try Com-
pany boy.

DoTHEBOY. — \^Tries the base with his jjZwmme^] I
pronounce the base of the monument level and square,
and securely laid.

Entwistle. — I propose to place on the north-east angle,
the column of Industry, for I know of nothing so neces-
sary to true success in life as indomitable industry. The
boy who always has something to do, will always do some-
thing. I know that all work and no play makes Jack a
dull boy, but I would have every boy industrious at play,
and when playtime is over, diligent at his work. [^Places
his column.']

'!*•;

r -'1

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

f ;

FiLCnNOTiiiNO. — I propose for the south-east angle,
the column of Truth; for without truthfulness, there can
bo no real prosperity in anything. The boy that tells a
lie, is never to be trusted. As well may we attempt to
build our mightiest structures on rotten posts and crumb-
ling columns, as to attempt to build a good character with-
out the support of sound practical truthfulness. {^Places
his column.^

Greoorson. — 1 propose the column of Honesty for the
north-west angle, because I consider this is one of the in-
dispensable requisites to a sound religious or secular life.
There can be no piety where there is no honesty, and there
can be no real success in any of the pursuits of life with-
out a sterling integrity ol purpose and action. \_Piaces his
cclumn.'\

Harkaway. — I ask leave to place the column of Cour-
tesy on the south-west angle, for if we are industrious,
honest, and truthful, if we are not afifable and courteous
we shall do comparatively little to benefit others. Kind-
ness should be an ingredient in all our actions if we
would reach a high position in life. [^Places his column.

Ireson. — Now that we have raised the columns, I wish,
with my comrade, to place an entablature on them, bearing
on its several sides the mottoes, " Love God," " Love one
another," " Love all men," " Love your enemies." These
are requirements which are certainly essential to a true
life, and which I hope will find expression in the lives of
all our comrades. [ The Jour boys who placed the columns f
now place a cricket or covered box at each comer ^ and help
put the entablature in its place.'\

Jenkinson. — I have a cap-stone, on each side of which
is the single word, '^ Grace." I could think of nothing
80 appropriate, for if all our efforts are not crowned with
grace, they will be of little use to us or to anybody else.
[ While he is speaking^ Jemmy and Doihehoy bring in
silently a pair of steps, on which Jenkinson goes up and
places his cap-stone injylace.'}

KiCKMAN. — Now, Mr. Corporal, I move we place upon

THE Tr.Y COMPANY

angle,
re can
tells a
iipt to
irumb-
r witli-
Placts

for the
the in-
ar life.
1 there
B with-
jces his

f Cour-

3triou3,

artcous

Kind-

if we

olumn.

I wish,

)eariDg

ive one

These

a true

ves of

)lumnSf

id help

which
othing
, with
y else.
ing in
and

eupon

the top of our beautiful monument, the banner which our
sisters have so kindly presented to us. What place better
than this, where its motto may ever be seen, and cheer
not only our hearts, but all others who shall see it ; and
possibly it may in such a position be the means of leading
others to join with us, and adopt our principles.

Samuel. — Let it be done. [^Ensign mounts the steps,
and puts the banner m j)/ace.]

(Enter /our girls, with evergreeni, and four xoith vaaca of jluwert.)

1st Girl. — Corporal Try, we come to adorn your beau-
tiful monunent with evergreens and flowers. We think
the occasion demands of us not only the expression of
sympathy which our sisters have shown in presenting you
with a banner, but we, who are younger than they, can
show our interest. We wish, therefore, to wreathe this
structure with evergreen, to denote that our sympathies
shall ever encircle you in your eflForts to do right, and to
show yourselves worthy sons of our sires, who dared risk
even life in the discharge of duty: {_Each hangs her
loreaihs on oni side of the monument.']

5Tn Girl. — And we wish, too, in placing these flowers
on your monument, to express the desire that the virtues
you emulate may ever unfold in you under genial influ-
ences from above, as these flowers unfold their beauties
under gentle dews and refreshing sunshine. [^Each hands
her vase offiowcrs to a hoj/j who places it on one corner of
the monument.] v

• . {Enter a very amall girl, with a bouquet o/jlowcra.)

Little Girl. — Mr. Corporal I want you to accept this
bouquet for yourself. I am a little girl, and can't talk
much, but I have learned to say —

'Tis a lesson you should heed.

Try, try again ;
If at first you don't succeed,

Try, try again ;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
««« Try, try again.

'■(

■0

96 TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

If 70a fiad jour tajk is hard,

Try, try again ;

Time will bring you its reward,
Try, try again ;

All that other folks can do,

Why, with patience, may not you ?

Only keep this rule in view-
Try, try again.

Samuel. — We thank you, young ladies, for these ex-
presBions of interest in us ; and before you leave us, per-
mit me to ask that you will join us in singing another
song appropriate to this occasion.

Little raindrops feed the rills ;

Rills to meet the brooklet glide ;
Brooks the broader rivers fill ;

Rivers swell the ocean's tide.
Thus, the dewdrops gathered here, ^

Mites from youthful, willing hands.
Shall those streams of bounty cheer,

That with greenness clothe the land.

With the sea of love shall blend,

Which the gospel's grace doth pour.
Till the name of Jesus sound, '

E'en to earth's remotest shore.
Praise to thee, O Lord, forever,

Gladly now we all unite :
Praise to thee, God I the giver,

Blessed Lord of life and light !

[Girls rdire.] '

James. — I feel a little ashamed, Corporal, that I re-
fused to help you to do a good deed to-day, but I feel so
muclf better now, T move we all adjourn to old Rogers,
and do up his work for him without delay.

Samuel. — Very well, boys; form line. To the right
face ! Quick — march !

[AH march off in order.']

8
no

bl(
a ]
wi
an

THE TRY COMPANY.

per-

MATEaiAL OF THE TRY COMPANY.

[The directions here given, may be followed exactly, or modijkd to
iu\t the taste and circumstances of those who use the piece."]

Eighteen boys, from 12 to 14 years. Six girls, about 12 years.
Four girls, about 10 years. Four girls, about 8 years. Ono
girl, about 5 years. Each boy has a sash over right shoulder and
under left arm, of blue cambric, bound with white tape, and fas*
tened with a small rosette.

Eighteen badges, with motto, " I'll Try," printed on a card of
diamond shape, four inches square, with a loop to hang upon the
sash.

A Banner of blue, with motto in gilt letters, " I'll Try." Letters
of large size may bo cut from gilt paper, and pasted on.

Four evergreen wreaths, 1 J yards long.

Pour vases of flowers.

Four covered boxes, abcut twelve inches high.

Batons for Corporal, Orderly, and Recruiting Officers.

A flight of six steps.

A monument, made as follows; — Base 4 feet square, 16 in high.
Four columns, 8 in square, 4 feet h'gb. Entablature 4 ft. square,
8 in high. Cap 2 ft. square, 8 in high. Made of thin boards,
not over f inch in thickness, covered with paper in panels, and
with mottoes cnt neatly from gilt paper, and pasted on.

In papering the monument, the panels should be of black mar-
ble paper, and the outside stiles of plain stone-colored paper, and
a narrow moulding of paper between. The columns are draped
with pink cambric, and have their mottoes printed on pasteboard,
and nailed on.

: .tl

I re-
reel so
Rogers,

rigbt

MY MOTHER'S GOLD RING.

T^liiM

A TEMPERANCE DIALOGUE.

[By a sailor boj, returned from sea, and bis brother, from
school.]

William. — [^Advanctng with interatj and talcing Loth
his hands.'] Robert, Robert ! Is it possible I

Robert. — Aye, Willie boy, Robert it is — your own
Robin Hood as you loved to call me, when we ranged the
wild woods after squirrels, and climbed the tall hiokery's
to share with them their nuts.

William. — Yes, I see your dimple, now you smile. I
could pick you out of a thousand little sailor boys, Robin ;
but how glad I am to see you — glad, indeed, to feel these
rough sailors hands in mine. [^Good-naturedli/ shaking both
his hands ]

Robert. -r- Aye, rough they are, for they have seen
rough times ; but you know nothing about being glad.
You must let me say that, for how I have longed for
home, and would have given worlds, were they mine, to
have flown to you, while I wandered in a land of stran-
gers. Home is home, Willie, be it ever so homely; and
although I had but a poor prospect in looking that way,
yet I could not help wishing to see you, and mother, and
little Jeanette, even though it were in a poor-house, for
I felt it would even then comfort my broken-hearted
mother only to sec me, for it would come sweetly over my
mind how poor mother and Jeanette, when they petted
me, called me their " little Robin." ^-^

William. — Sweet Robin, you know it was ; but no
matter for the bygones now — you donH know wtat
good news I have for you. •

Robert. — Good news ! I wonder which of the four
winds can ever blow fair for Bob Luckless, as the sailor

•^

MY mother's gold RING.

ir, from

ig both

ur own
ged the
okery'fl

lile. I
Robin ;
}l these
'ng both

Q seen
; glad.
;ed for
line, to
stran-
ly; and
\t way,
|er, and
ise, for
leartcd
er my
petted

)ttt DO

wli&t

•

four

sailor

called me — for things would go wrong — I could not help
it. No wonder, Willie, when my heart was all the while
away with you ; but when they taunted me, and would
say, " Poor fellow ; he's thinking of home now;" I would
add, ** Avast, you little lubber, with your love knots I" but
it was all true, for I would be blurred with tears, hardly
knowing what I was about.

William. — But you don't ask about your father,
Robert.

Robert. — Oh, brother ! I feared, I feared to touch
that subject — is ho then dead ?

William — No, Robin Hood, he is alive from the dead.
[Embracing him with feeling. 1 We have a home, now,
and a father, too. Yes, we have a father indeed, and no
broken-hearted mother now.

Robert. — Can it be true, Willie ? [Taking his hand,
and looking earnestly at him."] Was it not too much to
hope for? What ! is all prosperous and happy again, and
have I come in right good season to fill up my mother's
cup of joy ?

William — Yes, Robin ; and we are back again in the
old farm-house, and father has bought the mills.

Robert. — Bought the mills ?

William. — And the meadow, and the orchard, and
the mountain lot, where the mill-pond is.

Robert. — What! the 'Squire's, where we used \^
skate? Stony Creek meadow, too — what! all that ?

William. — Yes, yes, all father's now ; and Jeanetto
and I go to school in the village, and have a good time,
and mother has the neatest dairy in the country. Mother
don't look pale and sad any more ; and Robin, you wouldn't
know father, now — no, not at all.

Robert. — Happy change ! And is all this in store for
Bob Luckless ? But tell me, Willie, what has worked
this world of wonders ?

William. — Sit down here, and I will tell you all, that
we may rejoice together at the return of the wanderer —
not so much you, dear Robin, but our poor father, who
was once lost, but is now found again.

100

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

Robert. — That we will rejoice, for I think lightly of
my troubles past, to reach at last so pleasant a port as a
peaceful home — but quick, come, tell me all !

William. — Well, you remember that dreadful stormy
night in October, in which we parted by the big maple-
tree at the mill-race, after father turned you out ?

Robert. — Oh, Willie ! don't talk of that now, for my
heart bleeds afresh. It must have been a bitter night
of troubles for my mother. How often have I heard her
say, " I have no comfort, if not in my children." But it
is past now.

William. — That night, as you know, you went down
to Uncle Jones's schooner in the bay.

Robert. — Yes, and he received me kindly ; and before
midnight, with a running gale, we were on the broad
ocean. It was a stormy night.

William. — But the storm was great at the farm, Rob-
in ; for when mother and little Jeanette grieved after you,
father beat them, and thrust them both out in that dread-
ful storm. I stood in the door-way ; they reached the
bottom of the hill, and mother fell exhausted ; then I heard
Rover whine, who, poor dog, had followed them as a
faithful friend. Returning to the room, all was dark.
Father's tempest of rage had past — he was asleep, stretch-
ed on the floor. I snatched a few things, closed the
doors, and ran with fearful ha»te to the foot of the hill.

Robert. — And poor mother ? —

William. — Had fainted j and I could not drag little
Jeanette away from her. I hastened to neighbor Burns's,
and returned with him, found poor Rover, trembling and
whining, stretched across them both, as if to keep off the
cold storm. Neighbor Burns kindly brought us all to his
house.

Robert. — Good neighbor Burns ! I knew he would do
so ; honest, sober man — he had his reward in the pleasure
of doing it.

William. — The old house was stripped of everything
next day ; father was taken quite ill, to the county poor-
house. Mother was some days before she could be moved,

MY mother's gold EINO.

101

tly of
>rt as a

stormy
maple-

br my
night

,rd her
But it

down

. before
broad

a, Rob-
ter you,
dread-
ed the
I heard
m as a
dark,
tretch-
id the
le hill.

; little
urns's,

g and
flF the

to his

kid do
[easure

rthing

poor-

toved,

and she could follow him, saying to us, "Father shall not
want for kind nursing in his sickness/' Jeanctte and I
would not be parted I'rom her, so we all went, and mother
nursed him. He was in a few months restored. The
winter was severe ; I went to work at neighbor Burns's,
earned a little daily, and got some comforts for mother, so
hope again smiled on us. — But don'* you remember,
Robin, the little society down at Warwick ?

Robert. — What, the little cold water company ? Yes,
I do — I always thought it a good plan for peace and com-
fort.

William. — Well, Charles Wilson bpent the holidays
at neighbor Burns's. He brought a little green box with
his papers, and we all signed and formed a society there.
I got a box, too, like Charles's, copied his papers, and got
ever so many names, and almost persuaded father, too, for
he seemed quite weaned from drink. And he did sign at
last, as I will soon tell you ; and I believe it has saved
him and njany others from ruin. When father seemed
himself again, we went back to the farm house, got a few
things together with the help of our neighbors, and we
thought all would go well again ; but the storm blew back
again, and father joined his old companions, and was
worse than ever.

Robert. — Ah, Willie ! that's the way it is at sea. The
storm and wind lulls for awhile, then the tempesf bursts
with redoubled fury, tearing all to pieces. — But poor
mother ?

. William. — Oh, then she was truly broken-hearted.
Hope seemed forever fled. Little tleanette pined away.
At last, a lady kindly took her home ; but, though well
for Jeanette, it sorely grieved my mother. You know,
Robin, father always favored me for I was named after
him, and I oflen persuaded him home, and he would for
awhile seem ashamed and sorry ; but then again, he would
be as hard-hearted as ever, and care for nothing.

Robert. — And what, after all, could win him back?

William. — There was a soft place in his almost seared
conscience, Robin, and it was touched at the right time.

i:l

'im^

"•.

102

T£MP£BANCE DIALOGUSS.

At the close of one- of our long tedious days of sufferingy
mother was wasting away with grief and want, when
father had heen from home since the night before. I
went in search of him, and then, at a late hour of the
night, he was among the wicked crowd. I glided • close
to him, unnoticed. He was reaching his hand to the
counter, and something dropped from it to the floor. It
was bright and shining, and I knew the little treasure^
it was mother's ring !

Robert. — What ! mother's gold ring she used to weep
over when she talked of the good times when she first put
it on ?

William.— It was, Kobert. I suddenly took father's
hand, looked him kindly in the face, and with a trembl-
ing heart, cried **0h, father, '2V« mo^Acr's gold ring V^
He was for a moment overcome — I led him, weeping, to
the door. He was quite himself. We walked silently
and sadly home. I told mother what had happened, and
and she was strengthened to talk to him. She lifted up
her feeble hands to heaven, praying for a blessing on those
penitent tears, and those earnest promises. Father seem-
ed as one returning to his senses — was gentle and mild
spoken. I ran to my little green box for my temperance
pledge, that had all our names on but his^ and I said,
" Come, father let us all be alike, and all one — a whole
family in temperance, and perhaps, a whole family in
heaven." With a trembling hand, he signed ; then moth-
er, putting the ring on his finger, said, << This shall be
a seal of remembrance, William ) look on it, and forgot
the past." He then renewed his promises, and what a
thankful hour it was,^at first hour of peace and rest that
mother had known for years. Father was as good as his
word, and started next morning early, and threshed all
day at neighbor Burns's, and brought his wages to mother
at night. Oh^ that was a thanksgiving supper, sweetened
by the tears of mutual joy and words of peace; and scanty
it was, how truly refreshing, as we experienced how true
was the Bible saying, '< Better is a dry morsel and a dinner

MY mother's gold RING.

103

fehng,
when
re. I
[>f tlie
■ close
to the
)r. It
sure —

weep
st put

atlier'fl
trembl-
ring /"
ling, to
iilently
idy and
ted up
CI those
seem-
mild
lerance
said,
whole
lily in
moth-
lall be
forgot
'hat a
1st that
as his
id all
LOther
stened
scanty
true
Linner

of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred there-
with."

BoBERT. — And has all gone straight since that — no
breakers or head winds, Willie ?

William. — Father continued his orderly conduct. I
went daily with him to watch him and pick up a little
work with him ; and never but once did he turn out of
the way by temptation, and then I quickly took his hand,
and pointed to the shining treasure on his finger, said,
" See father ; don't forget mother's gold ring." It was
eiough ; and now it is two years since, aod these have
been two years of j^y and blessing. Father's earnings,
and mother's, and sometimes mine, soon laid up a little
bank for us ; we got a cow, and bought the Stony Brook
meadow lot ; then one piece of furniture after another bright-
ened up our little cottage ; the old place began to lift up its
head as fast as its master did. The singing birds seemed
to rejoice in its groves, and the grass looked greener than
ever, and the flowers, two, were sweeter now. Father
was at last able to lift the mortage, and bring all back
again ) little Jeanette returned smiling to a happy home,
and all we sighed for was Kobin Hood. [Kindlt/ taking
his hand.^

BoBEBT. — And that sigh shall be hushed to-night, for
I will add one more gladdened heart to the happy family,
and give another name to the temperance paper in your
little green box, and then all the family, as you say, will
indeed be one.

William. — What a happy day for all of us and that
happiness built on temperance ! Only last night it was,
when Jeanette lisped your name.* "Yes, poor Robin I"
said mother ; " if he was but here, what more could I wish
for ? My cup of bliss would then be full."

Robert. — So it shall be full and overflowing, too.
Mother has all her wishes, and shall sigh no more, and
shall never want in days to come, if Robin, the sailor boy,
is still spared to her. I have heard wonderful stories,
Willie, on the seas, among the sailors, and have heard of
wonderful rings in fairy tales, but nothing like the story

104

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

of Hopewell farm ; and no ring like wiy mother* s gold
ring; and no paper of promise to pay, or payment of sealed
deed, like the temperance paper in your little green box,
sealed with the tears of penitence and promises of reform.
The fame of it shall spread far and wide, wherever Robia
the sailor boy goes ; and no champion among the knights
or giants shall be braver than he in the cause of temper-
ance,— or this is not your own Robin Hood who shakes you
with his rough hand, Willie, boy. And you shall gi\e
me the little green box with the parchments thereioi and
every voyage 1^11 bring it home a yard longer. \

William. — Then you'll be my own iRobin Hood, a^id
mother's own sweet Kobin once again.

Robert. — Yes, for when I tell the sad, joyful tale of
Hopewell farm, I can show father's trembling signature
on the paper, and the thoughts of it all cannot fail to
touch every heart, and the temperance cause shall always
gain by the story of my mother's gold ring.

William. — So it shall, Robin, for it is a magic ring,
indeed. It has healed the broken-hearted, transformed a
brute into a man, turned a husband to a loving wife, a
father to his children, made a sorrowful house a home
of joy and thanksgiving, and has blessed all it touched.

Robert. — And the truth of it has touched me, too,
Willie, so I shall hoist the temperance flag wherever I
sail, teaching the sons of the briny deep to love fresh
toater as they do the waves of their own salt sea, and I
trust I shall see the day when many a little green temperance
box shall be stowed away in the sailor's till, or the cap-
tain's locker, for honest tars are too generous not to give
to any cause that will bring relief or comfort to the
afflicted, and deliverance to the oppressed. But see —
there skips happy little Jeanette, like a little fairy along
lane the to the happy farm-housC; now to be gladder than
ever.

William. — Come then, Robin , my sailor boy. [ Taking
his ^and.'] Let us all sail with this happy breeze of joy
into the pleasant port of a temperance home.

3
T
II

P
f.

a
c

s
1
a
t

105

THE VIRTUES

FOR SIX YOUNQ LADIES.

[A personification of six of the principal virtues, by as many
young ladies, in the form of a dialogue ; 1st, Charity ; 2nd, Mercy ;
3rd, Humility ; 4th, Modesty ; 5th, Patience ; 6th, Temperance;
The young ladies enter, and form a semi-circle. They may dress
in costume to suit their tastes. It would be well to give to each
a distinct color of dress. Thus : Charity, white ; Mercy shy 'blue ;
Humility, drah ; Modesty, pah pink ; Patience, brown ; Temper-
ance, green."]

Charity. — Fair sisters, it were fortunate for our fallen
race if our domiaion were universal.

Meroy. — True, sister Charity, and it would be thy
province to warm the world's cold heart, and open the
fountain of benevolence, to cause plenty to visit the
abodes of penury and want, and drive hunger and misery
away.

Humility. — And thine, good sister Mercy, to stay the
arm of vengeance, soften the heart of cruelty, plead the
cause of the erring, and cause it no longer to be said.

"Man's inhumanity to man.
Makes countless thousands mourn."

Modesty. — And thine, gentle sister Humility, to wor-
ship in the ear of the proud, that man is '^ like the morn-
ing cloud and early dew ; to check the car of vaulting
ambition, and teach pompous vanity to bow at some other
than a selfish shrine.

106

TEMPEBANOE DIALOOX7ES.

I'M

114

Patience. — And thou, sweet Modesty, daughter of
Meekness, art among the brightest relics of Eden I It
should be thy proTince to banish impudence, hold the mir-
ror to the face of egotism, and learn the meritless preten-
der to see himself as others see him/'

Temperance.^- Gladly, quiet sister Patience, should
the world hail thee Qneen t For thou wouldst drive des-
pendency from the child of affliction, cheer the weary and
well-doing, and hold the lamp of hopa along the path of
enterprise.

Charity. — Hail, beautiful sister Temperance ! Of
all the fair daughters of Virtue there are none whose
reign would bless mankind more than thine !

All. — Hail, Temperance ! Thou art among the fairest
and best of the daughters of Virtue !

( Tne young ladies should pronounce these two lines in ftdl^
measured tones in accord.)

Charitt. — Time, patience and perseverance accomplish
all things. Let us, my good sisters, this hour resolve to
cease not our eflforts until we bring the world under oup
dominion. Until all the wayward sons of earth shall bow
at our shrines, and submit to oar peaceful reigns.

All, — Most cheerfully, kicd sister, do we so resolve,
and from this hour wir set about the good work.

Temperance. — I ^lU break the sceptre of old Bacchus,
demolish his throne, and banish his ugly majesty to the
dreary empire of Night, from whence he came. The ine-
briate shall be clothed in his ri^ht mind, bow at the shrine
of Temperance, and his sorrowing wife shall cease to la-
ment his folly. I will woo tha young from the paths of
vice, and cause wisdom to take them by the hand, and
lead them along the walks cf virtue. The voice of riot
shall be hushed, strife and tumult shall cease to wrangle,
and reason shall hold universal dominion over the minds
of men.

Patience.— I will visit the chamber of affliction, and
bid the sufferer hope, will trim the midnight lamp of the

THE TIOTUES.

107

student; and point him to the temple of &me, and the
chaplet that is weaving for his brow. Mountains shall be
removed from the paths of enterprise, the shores of ocean
shall shake hands together, and the world shall learn that
patience and perseverance conquer all things. Woman
shall contest the palm of science of boasting man, and her
brow shall bloom with unfading wreaths, gathered by her
own toil from the gardens of literature.

Modesty.— I will bestow upon woman a brighter gem
than ever sparkled in Castalia's fountain. The son of
song shall find inspiration in its beams, and the tongue of
eloquence glow with rapture in its praise. Modesty shall
reviye the faded blooms of Eden, and admiring angels
claim again a sisterhood on earth.

Humility. — I will teach the proud to become as little
children, and the boasting to bow meekly at the feet of
wisdom, and learn the vanity of earthly possessions ; will
point them to the heavens and the earth, to the vast suns
that blaze, beautiful stars that twinkle, and stupendous
comets that revolve through the wide empire of space,
and ask them what is man that he should boast when the
vain oppressor is revelling in his hall, receiving the flat-
teries of dependents, and dreaming of an increase of power
and magnificence, I will startle him from his dreams by
writing in mysterious characters upon the wall : <' Thou
ar|; weighed in the balance and found wanting;'' thy
throne is tottering to ruins, and liberty is now preparing
thy grave, oh, tyrant.

Mercy. — I will remind man that Heaven was merciful
to him, when the flaming sword of justice would have cut
him down, and therefore to be merciful to his fellows. I
will stand by the side of the judge, and mysteriously in-
cline the scale to the side of mercy rather than of ven-
geance : and will visit the gloomy prison-house, unbar its
massive doors, and unclose the chains of the fettered. The
strong shall cease to oppress the weak, and the obdurate
heart of cruelty shall be melted into tenderness.

Charity.— And I will not be idle, fair sisters. 1 will

108

TEMPERANCE DIALOGUES.

dry up the tears of the sorrowing one, hush tlifc cry of the
orphan for bread, cause the rose of plenty to oloom upon
the pale check of want, and illuminate the desolate do*
minions of misery with the smiles of hope.

All. — Ilail, sister Charity, brightest star that illumi-
nates our' fallen earth, may universal dominion soon be
thine. ^ And may this intelligent audience fall in love with
Charity, Mercy, Humility, Modesty, Patience and Temper-
ance; and submit to their happy reigns.

{^Curiain drops as the ladies all clasp hands and form in a circle,
around CHARiTr as if to crown her.)

109

the
pon
do*

mi-

ith

per-

Ircle.

THE OLD LADY'S WILL.

[These several characters should dress ia costume becoming
their callings. Whea well rendered, the scene is very humorous,]

(!II)aracter0.

EQUIRE DRAWL.

SWIPES, a brewer.

FRANK MILLTNOTON.

CURRIE, a saddler.

(^Enter Swipes and Ourrie.)

Swipes. — A sober occasion this, brother Currie ! Who
would have thought the old lady was so near her cad ?

Currie. — Ah ! we must all die, brother Swipes. Those
who live longest outlive the most.

Swipes. — True, true; but since we must die and leave
our earthly possession, it is well that the law takes such
good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she
departed ?

Currie. — Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me
she read every word of ner last will and testament aloud,
and never signed her name better.

Swipes. — Had you any hint from the squire what dis-
position she made of her property ?

Currie. — Not a whisper ! the squire is as close as a
miser's purse. But one of the witnesses hinted to ine
that she had cut oS her graceless nephew with a shil-
ling.

Swipes. — Has she ? Good soul ! Has she ? You
know I come in, then, in right of my wife.

Currie. — And I in my own right > and this is no doubt,
the reason why we have been called to hear the reading
of the will. Sqnire Drawl knows how things should be

110

TEMPEBANOE DliLLOGUES.

done, if he is as air-tight as one of your own beer barrels,
brother Swipee. Bat here comes the young reprobate.
He must be present, aa a matter of course, you know.
(Enter Frank Millinqton.) Your servant, youn^ gen-
tleman. So, your benefactress has left you, at last f

Swipes. — It ii a painful thing to part with old and
good friends, Mr. Millington,

Frank. — It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better,
had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She
was my only friend, and I knew not her value.

CuRRiE. — ^It is too lato to repent. Master Millington.
You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.

Swipes. — Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better
people are obliged to do. You would make a fine brew-
er's boy, if you were not too old.

CuRRiE. — Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight
rein.

Frank. — Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt
has treated me as I deserved. I am aoove your insults,
and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly, as
I shall mine, submissively. I shall retire. (^As he is
goingf enters Squire Drawl.)

Squire. — Stop, stop, young man I We must have your
presence. Good morning, gentlemen ; you are early on
the ground.

CuRRiE. — I hope the Squire is well to-day.

Squire. — Pretty comfortable for an invalid.

Swipes. — I trust the damp air has not affected your
lungs.

Squire. — No, I believe not. You know I never hurry,
Siow and sure is my maxim. Well, since the heirs-at-
law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will
and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.

Swipes. — ( While the Squire is breaking the seal,) It
is a trying scene to leave all one's possessions, Squire, in
this manner !

CuRRiE.— It really makes me feel melancholy when I
look round and see every thing but the venerable owner

THE OLD LADY'S WILL

111

rill
law.

It
„m

ilk'

of theflo goods. Well did the preacher saj, ^' All is
Tanity 1"

Squirb. — Please to be seated, gentlemen. (^All nt.
The Squire putt on his tpectaclet^ and readt tloioly.)
*' Imprimis : Whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by
his disobedience and ungrateful oonduot, has shown him-
self unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing
my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my
houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, and property, botn
personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel SwipeSi
brewer, and Christopher Currie, saddler." [Squire takes
off his spectacles to wipe thcm.'\

Swipes. — (^Dreadfully overcome. ) Generous creature !
kind soul ! I always loved her.

OOrrie. — She was good, she was kind ! She was in
her right mind. Brother Swipes, when we divide, I
think I will take the mansion house.

Swipes. — Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie I My
wife has long had her eyo upon that, and must havo it.

\Both rise.

Currie. — There will be two words to that bareain;
Mr Swipes ! And, besides, I ought to have the first choice.
Did not I lend her a new carriage every time she wished
to ride ? And who knows what influence —

Swipes. — Am I not named first in her will ! And did
I not furnish her with my best small beer for more than
six months ? And who knowb what influence —

Frank. — Gentlemen I must leave you. [Going,

Squire. — ( Wiping his spectacles and putting them on,)
Pray gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet.
(^Ali sit,) Let me see; where was I? — Ay, — "All my
property, both personal and real, to my dear cousin, Sam-
uel Swipes, brewer —

Swipes.— Yes I

Squire. — " And Christopher Currie^ saddler-^"

Currie.— Yes !

Squire. — " To have and to hold, in trust, for the
sole and exclusive benefit of^y nephew, Francis Milling-

112

TEMPEBANCE DIALOGUES.

ton, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one
Tears ; hy which tini% I hope he will so far have reformed
his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the
large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him/'

ST71PES. — What's all this ? You don't mean that wc
are humbugged ? In trust ! — how does that appear ?
Where is itr

- Squire. — (^Pointing to the parchment.') There ! In
two words of as good old English as I ever penned.

CuRRiE. — Pretty, well, too, Mr. Sauire, if we must be
sent for to be made laughing-stocks oi ! She shall pay for
every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you I

Swipes.— And for every drop of my beer. Fine times,
if two sober,', hard-working citizins are to be brought here
to be made the sport of a graceless profligate ! But we
will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie ! We will
make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with !

Currie. — That will we I

Squire. — Not so fast, gentlemen ; for the instrument
is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must
already be of age and able to take care of himseF. Is it
not #10, Francis?

Frank. — It is. [Exit, laughing.

Squire. — Then, gentlemen, having attended to the
' breaking of this seal according to law, you are released
from any farther trouble in the premises.]

[Exeunt in anger. Squire laughing

*^'

twenij'One
70 reformed
ed with the

i&n thai wc
It appear ?

rhere ! In
nned.

re most be
hall pay for
you!

Fine times^
'ought here
! But Tve
! We will
d with !

instrument
man must
sel*". Is it

lughing.
ed to the
:e released

jughing

■4