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ness, your brilliant eyes shine with a drunk
ard's glassy inexpressiveness, and your mind.
“where God has set his seal To give the world assurance of a man,” reduced to childishness, worse than childishness, since its weakness will have no redeeming innocence.” “But, Mrs. Packard,” said Ingols, “you forget how many indulge in ardent spirits without injury.” “I do not forget that, William, but I remember more vividly how many have been destroyed, soul and body, while these moderate drinkers, favoured perhaps by constitutional resistance, have been unscathed by the burning trial. But they will not escape, cousin William; they cannot escape His eyes who watches motives rather than deeds. They may be strong enough to carry until death the unrighteous banner of the drunkard without reeling, while others are falling on the right hand and on the left, but they lead the way to the destruction of others, and they must answer for it.”
“My dear cousin,” said Ingols, “you take this matter too seriously. You make a bugbear of a trifle.”
“A trifle !” I exclaimed; “call not that a trifle which rifles the mind and body of their best gifts. If I were permitted, I would go (not in the wildness of quixotism, but in the spirit of him who drove the profaners from God's temple) and destroy every implement like that before you, which attracts you and others from the simplicity of nature. They disgrace our homes, they deform the purity of domestic scenes, and often convert them into bacchanalian orgies. I had a friend once, William, young and lovely; such a one as your warm heart would have loved, and your discriminating mind appreciated. She received a shock from the early disappointment of her affections, pined, sickened, and drooped hike a withering flower. Would to God she had died in the unstained paleness of her beauty Tonics were recommended, and as medicine they were right. Her health was restored, and all would have been well, had they not been spread out among the wants and luxuries of life. Her sensual appetite increased. I sicken as I remember the miserable subterfuges that marred her fair character, first chilling the confidence of friends, and then by open exposures disgracing them. The enemy wrought surely, baffled but not subdued by reproaches, by sarcasms, by entreaties, by the shunning eye of retreating friendship, by the agonizing appeals of a dying conscience. She died a drunkard. Her mother wept bitterer tears than should ever fall over a daughter's grave; her sister's cheek paled with a sorrow sadder than grief; and her father, I tremble, while I say it, cursed his firstborn child.”. * Ingols had not tasted his draught while I was speaking, but held it in his hand, and when I ceased, quietly placed it on the table and said, “Cousin. I have not the heart to drink this now, and will give it up if only to please you.” “You are not angry, them,” I said, eagerly. N * .
“Angry no,” he replied. “How can I be angry with a true friend, and a lady too” with a low bow.
“Thank you,” said I, “and now that I have gone thus far, may I proceed?”
“Yes, cousin, I give you carte blanche.”
“I shall do it by actions, not words,” I said,
with solemnity; “and I warn you to be prepared, for I have solemnly pledged myself in prayer to God that I will never again aid the cause of the destroying angel. But promise me (not that I claim any right over you but that of interest in your welfare) that you will abstain from ardent spirits, now in the sunshine of your youth, ‘before the evil days come.’”
Ingols hesitated, reflected, and promised half earnestly, half jestingly. .
On the following day no decanter was to be seen on my sideboard or table, and I carried the keys up stairs. Ingols was very amiable, and our week passed happily away. Edward returned, and took no notice of the withdrawal of the decanters.
I had retired to my bedroom early one evening, when I heard Ingols enter, and ask Polly for the keys. She came up stairs, and I gave them to her in silence. I heard her transfer them to him, and held my breath. He opened the door. I trembled so much that I could not stand. I had emptied every decanter. I heard the rattling of the keys as the door closed, and a faintness came over me at my own daring. A half hour passed away, and Polly came back with a slip of paper, on which was written, “You have conquered, cousin. I thank you, and thank God.” I burst into tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break; nor was I relieved until Edward returned and said he loved me better for my