abstainer. He must sign the pledge, and the pledge must be made of a
solemn character with witnesses, say his poor afflicted wife and some
intelligent self-made Philistine. Perhaps it might run like this:
"I, A. B., do hereby promise that I will never buy a classical book
in any tongue, or any book in a rare edition; that I will never spend
money on books in tree-calf or tooled morocco; that I shall never
enter a real old bookshop, but should it be necessary shall purchase
my books at a dry goods store, and there shall never buy anything but
the cheapest religious literature, or occasionally a popular story
for my wife, and to this promise I solemnly set my hand." With the
ruin of his family before his eyes, or at least, let us say, the
disgraceful condition of the dining-room carpet, he intends to keep
his word, and for a whole fortnight will not allow himself to enter
the street of his favourite bookshop. Next week, however, business,
so he says at least, takes him down the street, but he remembers the
danger, and makes a brave effort to pass a public-house. The
mischief of the thing, however, is that there is another public-house
in the street and passing it whets the latent appetite, and when he
is making a brave dash past his own, some poor inebriate, coming out
reluctantly, holds the door open, and the smell is too much for his
new-born virtue. He will go in just for a moment to pass the time of
day with his friend the publican and see his last brand of books, but
not to buy--I mean to drink--and then he comes across a little
volume, the smallest and slimmest of volumes, a mere trifle of a
thing, and not dear, but a thing which does not often turn up and
which would just round off his collection at a particular point. It
is only a mere taste, not downright drinking; but ah me, it sets him
on fire again, and I who had seen him go in and then by a providence
have met his wife coming out from buying that carpet, told her where
her husband was, and saw her go to fetch him. Among the touching