A STRONG TEMPTATION.

A young man, or rather a boy, for he was not seventeen years of age, was a clerk in one of the great mercantile houses in New York. An orphan and poor, he must rise, if he rose at all, by his own exertions. His handsome, honest face, and free, cordial manner won for him the friendship of all his fellow-laborers, and many were the invitations he received to join them in the club-room, in the theatre, and even in the bar-room. But Alfred Harris had the pure teachings of a Christian mother to withhold him from rushing headlong into dissipation and vice, and all the persuasions of his comrades could not induce him to join them in scenes like this. He feared the consequences,

One evening one of his fellow clerks, George Warren, the most high-toned and moral among them, invited Alfred to go home with him to supper and make the acquaintance of his family. The boy gladly assented, for he spent many lonely evenings, with only his books and his thoughts for company.

He found his friend's family very social and entertaining. Mrs. Warren, the mother, was a pleasant, winning, I might almost say fascinating, woman; one of the kind whose every little speech seems of consequence, and whose every act praiseworthy. Mr. Warren was a cheery, social gentleman, fond of telling stories and amusing young people. And George's sister, Jessie, a girl about Alfred's own age, gave an additional charm to this happy family.

After supper, wine was brought in. Mrs. Warren poured it out herself, and with a winning smile passed a glass of the sparkling liquid to the guest. Alfred took it with some hesitation, but did not raise it to his lips. Each of the family held a glass, waiting to pledge their visitor. But Alfred feared to drink. He set the goblet on the table, while a burning blush overspread his face.

"What! do not drink wine?" asked Mrs. Warren, in her pleasant tones.

"I have been taught not to drink it," said Alfred.

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You have had good teaching, I doubt not," said the lady,

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"and I honor you for respecting it; but I think it makes a difference where and in what company you take it. I should not be willing for George to go into bar-room company with dissipated young men, and call for wine, but at home in a family circle it is different. A moderate use of wine never hurts any one. It is only when carried to excess that it is injurious. You had better drink yours. So little as that will never hurt."

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

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

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

Every one of the family put down their wine untasted.

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

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

And Mrs. Warren softly responded, "Amen."

Mr. Warren turned to Alfred. "We are not drunkards nor wine bibbers here, my boy. I have always preached temperance to my children but I have never realized before

how an occasional glass of wine, if partaken of in good society, could injure. I see it now. If a person can drink one glass, he can drink another, and yet another, and it is hard to know just where to draw the line. I thank you for this lesson. I will show that I have as much manliness as a mere boy. My children will follow my example and pledge to abstain totally from wine as a beverage."

"We will, father," was the response.

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

THE STORY OF DEACON BROWN.

Have you heard the story of Deacon Brown---
How he came near losing his saintly crown
By uttering language so profane?

But it wasn't his fault, as I maintain;
Listen, Maria, and you will see

How it might have happened to you or me.

A worthy man was Deacon Brown
As ever lived in Clovertown;

Bland of manner and soft of speech,

With a smile for all and a word for each.
"There's odds in deacons," as I've heard tell;
But one who has known him for quite a spell
Has often told me that Brown stood well,
Not only in church, but among his neighbors,
Esteemed and loved for his life and labors.
Not a man in the town at Brown would frown,
There wasn't a stain on his fair renown;
His soul was white though his name was Brown.

One morning the deacon started down

To purchase some goods at the store in town-
Sugar and salt, and a calico gown,

And a pair of shoes for the youngest Brown,

And other things which he noted down,--
A good provider was Deacon Brown.

His guileless heart was light as a feather,
As he rode along in the sweet May weather,
Till he came at length to the garden gate
Of the widow Simpson, and there did wait
For a moment's chat with the pious dame
Who, years agone, was the deacon's flame.

The widow Simpson was meek and mild,
With a heart as pure as an innocent child.
She dwelt in a cottage, small and neat,
A little way back from the village street;
And now, in sun-bonnet, with trowel in hand,
She was tickling the soil of her garden land.

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

"Quite well, I thank you; I hope you're the same."

Then they talked of the crops and the late spring storms,

Of the sparrowgrass and the currant worms;

And she asked the deacon what she should do
For the varmints that riddled her bushes through.

The deacon scratching his head, said, “Well,
If I were you I would give them hel--"
He bore too hard on the fence as he spoke,
When suddenly, swiftly, down it broke;
And prostrate there at the widow's feet,
Lay the fence, and the deacon pale as a sheet !

The deacon's pride was sadly humbled;

His teeth dropped out and he wildly mumbled,
As blindly there in the dirt he fumbled;

And the widow's faith as suddenly crumbled

When she found how her good friend Brown had stumbled,
And her beautiful fence to the ground had tumbled;
While it seemed to her that an earthquake rumbled;

In fact, as you see, things were generally jumbled.

The widow turned pale, and well she might,
As she looked at the ruin with womanly fright;
But her pious soul was shocked still more,
As she thought 'twas an oath the deacon swore.

The deacon, too, in his grief intense,

Was afraid he had given the widow offense.
He looked around in a vague surprise,

While he tried to dam the tears that would rise
(Of pain and shame) in his dust-filled eyes.

But when he recovered his teeth and sense
He borrowed a hammer and fixed the fence,
And endeavored with meekness to explain
His late remark, which was cut in twain
By the fall of the fence and his sad refrain;
No man could say he ever swore!

He was only speaking of hellebore,

A drug she could buy at what's his-name's store,
To kill the bugs which her bushes bore.

I cannot tell all that the deacon said,

But he started for home with an aching head,.
And a heavy heart that could not rest;

For a guilty feeling was in his breast

Which he couldn't get out, though he tried his best.
And the widow, she was ill at ease,

In spite of the deacon's apologies.
She left the garden, went up the stair,
Threw herself into her rocking chair,

And rocked and rocked till the soothing balm
Of the breeze and the sunshine made her calm.
Then she searched the scriptures to find a text
That would somewhat ease her mind perplext;
For her righteous soul was sorely vext,

And she wondered, "Whatever will happen next!"
And she thinks to this day, as I've heard her say,
Brown shouldn't have spoken in just that way.
But as for myself, I question whether,

If he'd just put his syllables nearer together,

There had been the least trouble or scandal-but then,
Such mistakes will occur with the wisest of men.

In viewing such things with our moral eyes,

There's a tendency, always, to moralize;

And this is the moral I offer for all:

When you

think you are standing take heed lest you fall!

THE LAST BANQUET.-EDWARD RENAUD.

The incident narrated in this poem is based on fact, a tragedy of the kind being reported to have occurred, during the French Revolution in 1793, in the north of France.

Gitaut, the Norman marquis, sat in his banquet hall,
When the shafts of the autumn sunshine gilded the castle wall;
While in thro' the open windows floated the sweet perfume,
Borne in from the stately garden and filling the lofty room;
And still, like a strain of music breathed in an undertone,
The ripple of running water rose, with its sob and moan,
From the river, swift and narrow, far down in the vale below,
That shone like a silver arrow shot from a bended bow.