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HIE FRIEND OF TEMPERANCE
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KITTY'S CHOICE.
A wealthy old farmer was Absalom Lee,
lie had but one daughter, the mischievous Kitty ;
So fair, and so good, and so gentle van she.
That lovers came wooing from conn try and City;
The first and the boldest to ask for her hand, '
Was a trimly dressed dandy -who worshipped her
tin;"
She replied with a smile, be could well understand,
That she'd marry no ape for the sake of hia akin !
The next was a merchant, from business retired ;
i ouBg ii uiy s fa iorm and : sweet ace he admired,
T n - uvuu.ima W HAKftUV. . .. '
And thongbt to blmsclf , "I cam easily win her. "
bo.be showed her his jwlace, and made a bluff, bow,
And said she nitjcht lire there; bat wickedly then,
Kitty told hire she'd Ion? ago made a rah tow,
Not to marry a bear for the sake of his den !'
A, miser came next; he was fearless and bold v.
In claiming his right to Miss Kitty's affection ;
He said she'd not want for a home while his gold
Could pay for a cabin to give her protection !
Half Texed at this boldness, but calm' In a trice.
She courtesied and thanked him, and blushingly then,
t)emurely repeated her sage aunt's ad vice,
"Not to marry a pig for the sake of his pen !"
The next was a farmer,'yunr, bashMand shy,
He feared the held wooers wbo came front the city,
IUb Oatikmn bit cheek, and the HgVt in his eye
Seon klnflled a name in the boson of Kitty.
"My life will be one of hard labor," he said,
"But darling, come share it with ; me" if you cb
"I suppose," she replied, gaily tossing her head,
i-I must marry the farm, for the sake of the man."
(Selected for the Friend of Temperance.)
Milly of the Manse.
BY MRS. g. c. hall;
Milly was a winsome bonnj? lass, when
Jfirst knew her said Mr. Garapbell,
blithe and befoi e all wompn I ever
frnet for singing Allan Ramsay's ballads,
or the songs of Robbie Burns; she was
Iier father's darling, her mother's pride,
and indeed, I may say, the pride of all
a m i m m m m a - Mm. as. a m a m i . m hL j-m
the pastor of Kirk-IIaverling, and lived
at Haverling Manse. She certainly,'
-continued M rt Carapbellj after pausing
a moment, was the bonniest and blith
est lass I had ever met.'
' That may be,' observed the minis
ter's wife, ' but, Jamie, I never, could
think Miss Milly as handsome, as you
say.'
5 fOh V replied Mr. Campbell I
thought, quite as slily as was consistenl
in a minister she was the bonniest
and blithest lass I had ever met then;
it was before I saw you, Nannie.' The
respectable IjTannie' smile smile thai
well became her round and ample coun
tenance; and her husband proceeded.
Ronald M'Lean was the only son of the
M'Lean, a laird of family and power but
ot little wealth ; for what remained
from ancient times had been spent in
keeping up a style and appearance to
pl ease the whim- of Ronald's mother, an
English lady, certainly of great beauty.
The laird loved her with Scottish truth,
and more than Scottish fervor, arid car
ed not what he did so she was pleased.
Young Ronald had too much of the spir
it of his claa to be a great favorite with
bis English parent, who wished him to
he sent to an English school. ,J3ut thjs
hia father stoutly refused ; and the boy
"was accordingly placed under the care
of Duncan Morrison of. Haverling, who
bad a rich reputation as a classic, and a
Btill richer as a moial man. I was at
that time a pupil in the same house,
though under very different circumstan
ces from Ronald M'Lean. He was a
laird's son, and I was the only son of the
muow vaiupDcu oi iuavisgien he
tsame to school with a fine footman be
hind him, I came by myself he had j a
fyGa f ftflrnr Vwia Yti--n
istore was contained in a handkerchief.'
' In a trunk a small trunk,' inter
rupted Mrs. Campbell.
No, Nannie, it was my poor moth
erV best, silk handkerchief.'
. If it wasn't a hair trunk, it was a
box, with may be a handkerchief lapped
round it,' persisted the worfhy woman,
anxious tor her husband's dignity on all
points. - .
'No, it was only a handkerchief; do
I not remember my mother ?'
, Go on,' interrupted Mrs. Campbell.
ot
X -?V B III I I I I II I I I I - I 1 1 I I I I If I In I I I I. I I" I II I ii I III II I I t 111
VnXLS UUUUdl&UiMJ UJJJJL J li I III llllll I I I I I HI I in II
THE OFFICIAL- ORGAN OP THE ORDER' OF FRIENDS
iSPuntn
ite! till.
I 4aid the minister ; ' but the
il 1IL - - ! -
handkerchief (' It was a trunk, I
know,' murmured Mrs. Campbell, But
in so low a tone as :o be heard only by
me, who sat next to her) ' did not pre
vent my being treated by all the house,
Milly included, as well as if I had been
a laird in prospective; they were happy
days, both for me arid Ronald, but es
pecially for Ronald,! who secured the
love of a heart that was above all price.
Millicent and the yonng laird grew to
&cthcrf and studied togetheraRtl in a1I
the studies where patience and applica
tion was necessary, Milly outdid us all ;
she was the personification of content
ed industry and innocent enjoyment;
tne admired ot the rich, the beloved of
the poor. It was sen by all at the
Manse, except Millyfs father and moth
er, that Ronald M'Lean loved her with
a strong and fervid affection, such as
men, however they may change in oth
er matters, can feel but once and Milly
was not slow in loving in return. I
very much doubt it Millicent would
have given up her heart so entirely to
this affection, had not the lady of
M'Lean, much struck with her beauty
and acquirements, invited her to spend
a tew. months at M Lean castle an in
vitation ghe was proud to accept ; and
while there the lady treated her with
so much kindness, arid, as Milly after
wards said, so like a mother,' that she
1 felt assured, poor thing! that the proud
lady knew and encouraged her attach
ment towards her son : it was natural
enough for her to think so and indeed
Ronald believed jtbe same natural
enongh, too, in hlm-pthongh bitter was
the struggle, and bard the trial which
taught them the contrary.
'One morning, during her stay with
the M'Leans, Milly was sent for to Mrs.'
M'Leah's dressing ":roonT earlier ' than
usual ; and there were the laird and
his proud lady, stiff and cold enough ;
and, instead of kissing her 'Sweet
Scotch girl' as she used to do on other
occasions, she permitted her to stand,
while she haughtily inquired, how she
had dared to suffer her son to breathe
his affection towards her, while under
her roof? she, moreover, upbraid d her
as an artful, designing creature; and
concluded by an injunction that she
should quit her house forever, and see
her son no more. You nia suppose
that Milly waited not to be twice bid
den ; her knowledge ot propriety pre
vented that, nor, indeed, so bitterly
hurt was she, had she the thoup-ht or
wish to bid good-bye to him she loved
so dearly. The blessing of the Lord
would not be with me,' she murmured
in the silence of herjown heart, ' if I en
couraged him in disobedience; and I
will show the great lady of M'Lean that
I can be as proud as she is.' '
'It was a sinful thought,' quoth Mrs.
Campbell. ,
' So it was, Nannie, I'll allow,' re
plied her gentle husband, ' but there
are times when the
wounded spirit stirs
within the best of us, and we cannot,
without much prayer, command it to
be still.'
She went home without leaving word
or token for poor Ronald, who came to
the Manse the next day in a woful ta
king. :'.
' The young man, at first, neither
sifhed nor spoke, but ; he looked into
her face as if he would read her soul,
which was then an easy thing, for her
mind was as an open book, full of good
thoughts and maidenly wisdom, devoid
of guile, and simple withal as a moun
tain dove. I am no way skilled in love
passages they are! foolish, and only
snares for wisdom, jbeguiling men and
women of their good resolutions ; and
so it was in this case; for Milly, who,
notwithstanding Mrs. M'Lean's harsh
ness, had formed the resolution of giv-
ing up all communion with Ronald,
was persuaded, and without her par
ents' sanction, to meet him once more
in a deep glen, where they had often
wandered before it! was considered a
sin ior either to love what to each ap
peared most lovely
upon earth.'
i .
aiilly was at her tryst at the time ap
pointed ; the evening was closing in
the stars, one by one, were stealing up
the bine arch of heaven the dewy soft
ness of night was over f the landscape;
still he came not ; there was a perfect
stillness in the air and on the earth, and
no sound disturbed the serenity of na
ture, save the occasional bark of the
shepherd's dog coming over the mount
tain, or the plash of the waterufbwl in
the deep blue &ko at her fe$U i was
a delicious hourf ylf sno heedSftt not;
her heart was sair and at last the - un
bidden tears rolled down her cheeks as
if that heart would break. Suddenly
came the sound of a footstep; she dash
ed the memorial of sorrow away, and
in another moment not Ronald but
the M'Lean himself stood at her side.
Now she was indeed alarmed; and-
a " mr a a 1
grasping the arm of the tall chieftain,
demanded, with an earnestness whtch
told her feelings, where Ronald was.
'He seated the trembling girl on the
bank, and took his place beside her.
M'Lean was a stern, but not a cold
hearted man, and he felt, more than he
cared to express at home, for the inno
cent and artless creature who loved his
son with such devotion ; he thought
highly of her, for thinking highly of
that which belonged to him; and it
was some time before he was able to
make the communication he knew must
be made. Ronald M'Lean had fnllmi
from his horse that morning, and had
been much injured. He had confided
to a favorite servant his desire that
Miily should he made acquainted with
his misfortune, as an excuse for break
ing his appointment. The servant,
with the dread of his mistress before
his eyes, told her of it; and thus it was
that the father and not the son kept the
expected tryst. And nowTlHicent,
I am come to commune with you, not
to reproach or chide you for a circum
stance which we ought all to have fore
seen, and over which, poor girl, as yet,
you have no control. It will not be al
ways thus ; for you have reason, and. I
am about to call upon you to exercise it,
riot for your own, but for Ronald's ben
efit. ' Anything for his benefit,' she re
plied, 4 1 will gladly do.'
(To be Continued.)
. i
One Fearful Night.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
We came down earlier than usual to
the ' shore' that season, said my friend,
and took rooms at a cottage, not liking
the bustle of a large hotel. We were
to occupy the cottage jointly with
another family, consisting of a gentle
man, his wife, and little daughter about
six years old. Our landlady was a
pleasant Quaker, of middle age, and all
the appointments of her house were
neat and comfortable. We were first
on the ground, and would have the
nice little home all to ourselves for two
weeks, when our fellow-boarders were
to arrive.
' I hope they are pleasant people,'
said my wife, as we sat at the tea-table
on the evening before the day on which
Mrs. Ra wlings expected them. ' You
said their name was Clare?' turning to
our landlady.
'Yes.'!
'Who are they?'
. ' People of standing, I believe,' was
the quiet answer.
' Were they ever here before ?'
Mrs. Rawling3 said' No.'
'I feel a little nervous about our fellow-boarders,'
said my wife, when we
were alone. If they should prove
t agreeable, we shall have a very ccsey
time : but if disagreeable, only annoy
ance. T'0 families thrown together
as closely as ours will be, need, for com
fort to themselves, affinity of taste and
temperament-'
'We shall have to make the best of
OF TEMPERANCE
HO. 47.
wnai comes,' I answered. ' No doubt
they will prove agreeable enough.'
We were on t)ie porch next day,
waiting for the new arrival, when the
omnibus from the depot drove up.
Mr. Clare was a man of about thirty
uve. ne nad one of those fine, but
marked faces, which once seen von nev
er forget. It was frank, but strom? in
feature with a grave, sweet mouth
firmly set for all its sweetness! His
eye were large and gentle, aud just
iiLwe sau, l tnongnt, as I looked into
them for the first time.
0 c iniru ins wiip irom me omni
busshe was small and light with al
most lover-like gentleness, I felt my
heart going out towards the man, and
drew a deep breath of relief.
'The right kind of people,' aid I, as
thy passed into the cottage, and left
me alone with my wife on the porch.
-ivx ;uu gcu n goou lOOK at jJlrs.
Clare? I did not.'
' Yes.'
' Well, what did the look tell vou ?'
'She's lovely.'
4 AndMr. Clare what do you think
' He's a splendid looking man,' an
swered my wife, with an emphasis on
one word in the sentence that left the
impression of a doubt m her mind,
'Did you notice his mouth?'
'Yes.'
'It was strong, yet sweet, like a wo
man's.' A slight veil of tnought dropped
down over my wife's face. She did not
answer for some moments; then said,
in a kind of absent way, as if she were
turning: over some doubt in her mind
'Yes; the mouth was gentle and firm
but has lines of suffering.'
' You think so V
; ' They were Very plain to my eyes.'
And now, looking through my wife's
eyes, they were plain to me.
We met Mr. and Mrs. Clare at the
dinner-table, and found them all we
could desire qniet,- refined, and iust
OUU.U ueo.le ,uv renneo, ana jnst
ine iaoy was
though you could not call her beautiful.
She was petite in figure, with a soft
oval face, and brown eyes that were
lustrous, yet tender. I noticed, as she
sat beside her husband at the table,
that she leaned a little towards him.
Afterwards, I observed the same atti
tude, always when they were together
sitting or standing. And she had a
way of looking into his face that was
peculiar a sober, loving kind of way
questioning, and I sometimes thought
touched with a doubt, or shadowed by
some ever-present memory.
Mr. Clare was very gentle towards
his wife, and, it was plain to see, very
fond of her. Nay, ' fond' is too weak a
word. He loved her with a pure and
deep affection.
I had claret on the table, and offered
my bottle to our new guests. But
they declined, with what seemed to me
almost cold politeness. '
. 'It is cooling to the blood,' I remark
ed, as I lifted a glass of ihe richly-colored
wine to my lips.
' It may cool the blood in some vein?,
but it burns like fire in others,' replied
Mr. Clare, after a moment or two of si
lence. -
I said nothing in answer to this, and
the subject was dropped. I found Mr.
Clare a man of large culture, simple,
habits, and fine conversational powrers.
We were much together, and mutually
enjoyed each other's society. : i
A week went by pleasantly enough.
Bathing, walking, and driving on , the
beach, sitting in the fresh sea-breeze,
and watching the surf as it came seeth
ing in upon the shore, or gazing out
upon the great, immeasurable ocean
so the time passed almost like a dream.
Every day I took my 'claret, but4 Mr.
Clare drank only water.
' I wish you would try a glass . of this
wine,' said I, as we sat at the dinner
table one day, about a week after the
arrival of our new friends, and I push
ed my bottle towards him.
'Thank you,' Mr. Clare answered
gravely and decidedly. But I am bet
ter without wine.' f
' Are you quite sure of that?' I que
ried. 'Pure wine gives life to the
blood. It is the spurious stuff that sets
the veins on fire.'
I noticed that Mrs. Clare leaned just
a little closer to her husband, and look
ed sideways up into his fice, in that pe
culiar way I have mentioned.
A faint but cmickly fading smile res
ted on M.(3are'8 lips as he replied
'Hiere mjay be idiosyncrasies of blood
that .will not bear even pure wine. I
have heard of such. '.
'Have you?' 1 said, a little curiously.
' Yes,' he answered, after a moment's
thought; then added c About a year
a ... ii
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Eight liaes orj less eonstitatc square.
agof I saw a curious statement that im
pressed me strongly. It was made by :
a physician of some note, and recorded
in a medical journal. It was to the efc'J
feet, ascertained by dissection Vthat A
too free use of stimulating drinks t tenil
ded to enlarge the blood globules, , as
well as those of the brain apd other or-:
gans, sa that they stood open-mouthed,
as it were, inflamed, athirst always, and I
eager to driuk. The physician to whoxab
I have referred, after clearly ascertaia
ing the existence of this morbid change,
had anj opportunity to dissect the bfalrl A
of a marr who, after beinjf i dnmkafd
for many years, reformed; and liTed itf-
berly until he died. To his astoqisf
ment, he found that the unnatnrally en- ,
larged globules of t he blood and brain J
had not shrunk to their Droner 1
Though they did not exhibit the inflam-
mationj of the drunkard's brain, j they r
were enlarged, and ready, it seemed,'
on the instant, to absorb the fume nf .
alcohol, and resume their old diseased
wsjvi a viwijt
A lo w, half stifled sigh touched ray -
ears, l glanced. into the fsuv nf "rM
m7 vs mMaM Or sj
Clare, and saw that her eves had thi.
set look of one who is gazing intently
on some mental picture. It waa not a
cheerful picture on which her soft eye
were fixed ; I needed no words to tell
me that.
' Curious,' I remarked, as Mr. Claw
ceased ! speaking.
1 was struck,' he resumed, after a
pause, with the impression made by
this discovery on the physician's mind,
lie thought he saw n this morbid state
of the brain the physical part of the rea
son why a man who has once been a
drunkard can never again, as long as he
lives, safely take one drop of alcoholic
liquor. He thought he saw why a glass
of wine put the man back instantly to
where he was when he (drank all the
time. He saw the citadel free from the
enemy, but undefended,1 incapable of de
fence, and its doors wide open ; so that
there was no safety except in keeping
uie ioe ai a distance, away beyond' tne
outermost wall
I thought I detected a plight ihiver '
of manner he closed the last sentence.
'I never understood the pathology of
this thing before,' said I the physical
reason why there was safety for the
drunkard only in total abstinence. We
may have the secret here. But I ' cauV
not understand why pure wine should
inflame the blood, when every globule
is in its normal state.'
There are such things as hereditary
conditions,' remarked Mr. Clare. ; !
not a drunkard as likely to transmit the
enlarged and thirsty blood and brain
globules to his children, as a consump
tive his tubercular diathesis ?'
I was half startled by the conclusive
directness of his query. . , .
' The law of transmission,' he '" went'
on, ' acts in no partial way. Whatever
we do of habit, whether physical : or
mental, goes down potentially to I our
children. It is an estate of which no
one can rob them. We bless or curse
them in our daily lives.'
There was a shiver in his voice nowv
My ear fdt it almost painfully. ,
Were you always so abstemious?' T
asked, two or three days afterwards, as
my glass of claret brought back the
wine jqpipstion. " i
'No,' he answered, somewhat grave
ly. 'jln my younger days I drank oc
casionally. But wine was always "too
heating for my blood.'
4 Perhaps,' said I, 'the article was not
always pure. It has long been difficult
to get the genuine stunt' i.
It was alwavs pure in my father'
house,' he replied. ' ' ".V;
' Then you are familiar with the, best
brands,' I remarked. y V
'Entirely.' ..;
'And know the flavor of gxd wine
'Few know it better,' he answered
quietly. J
I lifted the half-emptied glass of clar
et that stood near my plate, held It to
the light, and then sipped a few drop,
sayingas I did so, 'I think this is all
righti It should be, for it came direct
ly from the importer's, and, I paid him
his own price under the guarantee of
genuineness. Iam afraid of all doctor
ed stuff. Do me the favor,' and I pour
ed a claret ulass half-full, just to let a
few drops fall over your tongue, and
give me your opinion of its quality.'
How could he refuse so slight a re
quest ? For an instant there was hesi
tation. I looked at him, and saw a
quick change in his face. His wife
leaned closer, and laid her hand yery
softly on his arm. Then he took the
glass I held towards him, raised it to
his mouth, and sipped a few drops of
the fruity wine. My eyes were on his
face, watching for the connoisseur's look
of pleasure. The expression I saw was
more than that. It had in it a quick