prove your pity for them, as well as for the woman of my tale, by fearing and hating all manner of strong drink. Some have grown old in their love of it, and find it hard to give up. Not so with you; it is proved that you would be better and stronger without it; why, then, take what has been the ruin of thousands, and might be of yourselves? You cannot surely have learnt to love it yet, or, if you have, the greater reason still for giving it up at once. Some say God has not commanded it to be given up. Dear children, he has warned us against it again and again in His word; he has bid us do ourselves no harmand does not drink do us harm? He has bid us to do to others as we would they should do to us-would we not have others to do us good by their example, and help us on the right road? And are there none whom we would fain assist? a brother just growing up, and about to leave home-no dear little one, the pet and plaything of the fireside, whom you would shudder to imagine could ever become such a pest to society, such a disgrace to humanity, as a confirmed drunkard; but, remember, every drunkard was once just such a little innocent child as that, and when he began even to like the taste of the unclean thing, he did not intend ever to take too much-not he; he would have felt insulted, perhaps, had we asked him as we do you, to promise he would never run the risk at all. But look at him now, as disgraced in character, prematurely old, poor in circumstances, wretched at heart, he staggers to his miserable home, and then think what he might have been had he pledged himself to abstain entirely. I do not say he would have been a Christian-do not mistake me, and suppose that anything short of love to our Lord Jesus Christ is able to save sinners; but I may surely say that he would have been a better member of society, and a less degraded creature in the eyes of God and man, without this vice than with it. All who drink do not become drunkards, we admit, but they all run the risk of becoming so, and a fearful one it is. I would fain, if I could, persuade you not to go on in the way of danger, but to sign the pledge at once. Do not fancy it will be considered a sign of weakness, boys-we are always weakest when we pride ourselves in our strength, and surely it is weakness to fear a little ridicule for doing what is wise and right. You must bear this many times through life if you would become true-minded honest men; moreover, if you will have another reason to help you over this difficulty, look at the list of great names that have set you the example we would have you follow. Girls, what shall we say to you? I almost grieve to bid you look at the degraded drunkards of your own sex, as a warning against what you may become; the sight is too sickening to contemplate, and I would rather appeal to your better feelings.

Remember, then, that if you are wise, you will sign the pledge for your own sake and for the sake of others. It is a privilege and an honour to help forward a good cause, and we, of all others, are most called upon to relinquish that which has long been the scourge of domestic life. Little children, also, will you now believe I wish to do you good? if so, take advice and sign the pledge.

It may be as well to tell you though, as simply as I can, what the pledge is; well, then, it is a written promise, that by the assistance of Him without whom we can do no good thing, we will drink nothing henceforth that can intoxicate us, and will do all we can, by our example and advice, to prevent others falling into the sin. You see it is a very simple as well as a very good method, to give this written promise, for two reasons, the first being, that it is a great safeguard from the temptation. I have found it so, when others, from a very mistaken kindness, have urged me "just to take a little." I have quietly answered—“I cannot do so, for I have signed the pledge:" in other words, "I have made a promise, and as it would be wrong and unworthy of me to break it, you cannot justly feel offended at my refusal to partake of a thing, the use of which I condemn." Some may say that if we choose to abstain, we might do so without a pledge or promise to that purpose, and that it is a proof of weakness to give one. This brings me to the second reason. Who among us is so strong as to be able, prudently, to disregard all that may assist us in a good resolve? If others think themselves so, do not you, my young friends, for as I said before, depend upon it we are weakest when we think ourselves most strong. Besides, if we believe Total Abstinence to be a good thing, why should we scruple to acknowledge it openly by adding our name to the long list it already boasts? High and honourable names there are among them, even as the world judges of such things. May the Almighty grant his blessing on their efforts, and save you, dear children, from becoming slaves to the degrading vice of drunkenness, and from all that is evil in His sight; fill your young hearts with love to himself, and grant you, through his precious Son, an eternity of joy. November 27th. MARY BUCHANAN.

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CAN A

CHRISTIAN KEEP A PUBLIC HOUSE?

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

NEIGHBOUR THOUGHTLESS AND HER NEIGHBOUR

THOUGHTFUL.

N. Thoughtless.—Neighbour Thoughtful, I have some good news to tell you. What do you think? My husband is going to take a publichouse!

N. Thoughtful.-A public-house! A public-house!

Thoughtless.-Yes, a public-house: and he says if he cannot get a public-house, he will have a beer-shop.

Thoughtful.-And what good will a public-house do either of you? Thoughtless.-Good! We think it will do us a deal of good. Thoughtful.-How can evil be productive of good? How can we be partakers in other men's sins, and hope to prosper?

Thoughtless.-Come, now; let me have none of your preaching. Thoughtful.-I am not going to preach; but how can I see you so unwise as to expect to "gather grapes of thorns, and figs of thistles," and not tell you of the trouble and disappointment you do not foresee.

Thoughtless. I have always found you a good neighbour, and so I told you my husband is going to take a public-house, thinking how pleased you would be.

Thoughtful.-I should not be a good neighbour if I could hear you say, "I am going with my husband to keep a public-house," and not speak against that wretched state of life, to which you are looking forward.

Thoughtless.-What is there to make it more wretched than any other state of life?

Thoughtful.-The word "public" ought to tell you that a "public

house' can never be like your own private dwelling, in which you can live with your husband and children just as retired as you like. "A public-house" is, and must be, public to all persons who choose to open the door, walk in, seat themselves down, and call for something to drink.

Thoughtless.-I mean to be very particular.

Thoughtful.-Particular, indeed! A particular public-house, and a particular landlady! Who before ever heard of such strange particulars?

Thoughtless.-Well, I say I mean to be very particular.

Thoughtful.-Has the devil whispered into your ear that you can be more particular than others; and keep a public-house just as orderly as your own little quiet cottage?

Thoughtless. If our public-house should not be just as quiet as I could wish it to be, I hope I shall not be less serious, or less religious, from keeping a public-house.

Thoughtful. Serious and religious! You might as well think of keeping a spark alive in the ocean, as to think of being serious and religious in a public-house.

Thoughtless.-Why so?

Thoughtful.-Because serious and religious characters are not the persons who frequent public-houses, but the people who shun them, as "the seat of the scornful" and profane.

Thoughtless. Do you mean to say that no good men ever visit public-houses?

Thoughtful. If they do, they will not long be good for much, for "evil communications corrupt good manners.' 1 Cor. xv. 33.

Thoughtless.-Do you not call William Smith a good sort of man? Thoughtful.—I do not know him; but this I do know, that I never yet knew a good man who did not avoid and pass by a public-house as no house for him to be seen in, either spending his money or wasting his precious time.

Thoughtless.-Well, if all the folks are bad who go to public-houses, there are a pretty many bad ones in the world.

Thoughtful.—More is the pity, for if they are bad, a public-house will never make them better; and we know that "the broad way that leadeth to destruction" (Matt. vii. 13) can never be made safe or happy, because so many walk therein.

Thoughtless.-Depend upon it, I shall "keep a good house."

Thoughtful. It will not be in your power to keep a good house. A good public-house is much such a contradiction as a sober drunkard, or an honest thief.

Thoughtless.-Well, if I cannot keep a good house, I will keep the best I can.

Thoughtful.-Very likely; and bad will be the best.

Thoughtless. But why should not I keep a house quite different to public-houses in general?

Thoughtful.-Impossible. There must be no reproofs in your mouth. I believe you are naturally unwilling to give offence: how, then, will you ever dare to offend your best customers, the men who drink the most ale, and spend the most money? Will you reprove the swearer, or ever think of checking the drunkard in his mad career?

Thoughtless.-Perhaps, if I did, the public-house would not answer. Thoughtful. Certainly not. Tempted by "filthy lucre" to please your customers, you must put up with a great deal which will at first displease yourself.

Thoughtless.-But why do you say at first?

Thoughtful.-Because, after a while, you will get used to all that which will, at first, surprise and shock you. You will hear "the filthy conversation of the wicked," "whose throat is an open sepulchre." You will hear men curse and swear; you will hear them tell all manner of lies; you will hear them laugh, and sing their foolish songs; and to all this wickedness you will become so accustomed, that you will care little or nothing about it, thinking more of the ale you can sell, than of the wickedness that you and your public-house are fostering.

Thoughtless. But are not public-houses necessary for travellers? Thoughtful.-If there were no more public-houses than what are necessary for travellers, there would be but few; or no more money spent than what they spend, it would be but little.

Thoughtless. If any traveller should come to our house, I shall be very attentive to his comfort, and see that he has the best our house may afford.

Thoughtful.—I dare say you will; but travellers will not be your customers. Your best customers will be some of your worst neighbours. The idle and profane; men who are bad husbands and bad fathers; careless and ungodly men, who have no respect for themselves, and whom no one respects: these will be your customers, and your customers must be your company.

Thoughtless.—I begin to think that, if you could have your way, there would be no public-houses.

Thoughtful. Certainly not: what are they good for? There are now some millions of men at home and abroad, dispersed over sea and land, dwelling in all climates, from the greatest heat to the severest cold; and who do all kinds of hard work, without beer or spirits; and