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IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

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very many, excess inevitable. The inferior creatures, by the power of instinct, have been known to do much better. A new England farmer, anxious to get rid of some troublesoms crows, placed a quantity of wheat steeped in whisky within their reach. Having had no previous experience of such a feed, they eat it greedily, and very soon exhibited all the effects of inebriation. Many of them perished by that day's debauch, but the farmer in vain tried the same experiment again-not one of the sable brethren would ever taste the tempting grain as it was placed within the range of their vision. gentleman who brought an acute monkey home from India as his cabin companion deceived Ponto by giving him sweet rum, which did not fail to make him reel and stagger and play all sorts of drunken improprieties, but next morning, suffering severe headache, he persistently refused to renew his dram, nor could he ever be induced to take the intoxicating fluid again. It is evident that if the bipeds of the last generation had been as rationally wise as the crows and monkeys were instinctively sagacious, the Temperance movement might have been earlier introduced among us, and then the painful and melancholy career of Oswald might have been prevented.

CHAPTER II.

EARLY LIFE.

Oswald's entry into life was an occasion of great joy to all the inmates of the family mansion. He was a a fine, strong, well-favoured infant, and his lungs gave no signs of pulmonary tendencies. Mother, father, sisters, and servants all doted on the little stranger, and no child ever seemed more worthy of the welcome that was given. Vigour, spirit, and good temper were the manifest signs of the child Oswald. Sooner than most infants he could run alone. He talked and reasoned so precociously that all the old wives of the district predicted his future progress and popularity. He was to be a nonsuch lawyer, or the most popular of preachers, or may be the most learned of professors. If a bright eye and a quick ear, a sharp intellect and a retentive memory, could have secured the fulfilment of their predictions, Oswald might have been all they foretold of him. A teaspoonful of toddy from his father, taken after dinner, was soon really relished, and before he had seen five natal days he could take even two or three with much evident enjoyment. At six years he had fairly entered on his education, and while he was at the head of his class he was also the life and joy of the school. He was evidently Socratic from his birth, for he questioned about everything he saw or heard. The surface of things never satisfied his inquiring mind, but he wanted to know the why and the wherefore of everything that came before him. All his relations and friends, and the visitors were laid under contribution to solve his problems, explain his mysteries, and to enable his understanding to know the modes and operations of all around him. They all agreed to call him the Philosopher, and his sayings often warranted the distinction the name involved. At eight he had become acquainted with English grammar, and could write a fair hand, and had got well into the perplexities of arithmetic. As a handsome, talented boy, he was a universal favourite with old and young, and it is needless to say he was perfectly conscious of the satisfactory position he occupied, and he was most anxious to retain it. He very early showed his intense admiration of the poet of his native land, and often when he visited Dumfries he drank in the eulogies some of the older people poured into his ear on the unrivalled genius of Burns.

As he opened up into a comely youth, his genial spirit seemed to glow with unusual goodness of heart and benignity of spirit. Through all the routine of the grammar school education he passed with honour to himself and great satisfaction to his parents and friends. The problem soon had to be solved as to his future

career in life, and while the subject often occupied the private conversation of his father and mother, it was occasionally presented to him that the bent of his own mind might also be obtained.

With all his love of poetry and rural scenes in verse or prose, he showed no hankering after the plough, or any of the phases of agricultural life. For the sea he had no longing at all, or a distant relative might have been useful to him in that direction. The law was not in harmony with his outspoken and candid convictions, and as to physic, he would have been perfectly willing to have consigned it to the dogs. His wishes seemed to go in the direction of an educational course, or to the ministerial office-at any rate it was determined that at seventeen he should go to college and be well grounded in classical literature, as well as be thoroughly abreast of the various sciences and systems of philosophy. Oswald ever aimed high. He had no idea of being a second or third-rate scholar, or indeed an inefficient in anything. It was the burning desire of his soul to excel, to gain both a name and position in the world.

During his youth he regularly attended the Burgher Meeting, where his father and mother were church members. The minister, Mr. Peden, was well educated, and had been an immense reader and close student all his lifetime. He was now between sixty and seventy years of age, and had dwelt among his own and only flock for forty years. He was a good pulpit orator, though occasionally quaint in his illustrations.

Not far from his residence there were many hallowed spots that had been consecrated with the tears and blood of those who lived and toiled for what they believed to be the faith of the Gospel. Mr. Peden was often a welcome guest in Oswald's father's house; and his great kindness, urbanity, and social good feeling made every place cheerful, if not merry, where he visited. Like all his brethern, he did not fail to say his usual long grace before meals, and generally used to examine or catechise the young people before he left the hospitable dwelling.

The good minister, though a strict discipilinarian as to heresies, had lax notions on the subject of strong drink and its tendencies. He could not endure what he called beastly drunkenness, but he had an unwavering faith in the exhilarating effects of whisky toddy.

At length the time came when Oswald was to leave home for college; and there must be a leave-taking, and of course the usual accompaniments of feasting and drinking. Mr. Peden might be said to be the president of the gathering, and as the spirits stirred within him he descanted on the importance of learning, the value of collegiate instruction, and kept them all alive with anecdotes of his own college days, and gave most graphic delineations of the characteristics of most of the professors. He also, as in duty and office bound, gave Oswald sundry directions and advices and cautions. He urged him to be exact and orderly, diligent and earnest, painstaking and persevering; to avoid idle company, profane society, and to abhor the theatre. He also advised him to keep very mainly to the books connected with his educational course, and not to idle away his time in reading romancing stories and the like. He said he should expect him to write regularly and report progress, and as his father and mother's friend, as well as his own also, he would ever be ready to help him with his counsel, and certainly would not forget to ask God's blessing on his life and studies. At that day, and with the prevailing usages of society, it was never thought strange that he had no cautions on the subject of intoxicating drinks or whisky shops, or bacchanalian perils. No, these rocks and shoals ahead had no place in the admonitions of the minister.

As the hours grew late, the bottle was doing its work on the nerves and emotions of the company. The worthy wife pressed on her guests a free and plentiful use of its contents. The father set an example of genial sociality, and the reverend president found no difficulty

IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

in keeping even with him in glass replenishing and smoke diffusion. Oswald and his companions were not backward recruits in the alcoholic service, and before they separated sworn friendships sprung up like mushrooms, and affectionate sentimentalities were as profuse as blossoms in May. About midnight the president, with one or two neighbours living in his direction, sallied forth arm in arm, extolling the hospitality of the Oswalds, and in agreeing that young Oswald was all that parents could desire, or the country or the church needed. Somehow or other next morning most of the party were later in making their appearance than usual, so that the fair conclusion was, that the fatigues of the evening had required a greater amount of Nature's sweet restorer-balmy sleep.

Our hero had taken a manifest step that night in the downward path of intemperance. He had taken a deeper draught of the exciting and bewitching cup. He had been confirmed in his habits as a regular, of course a moderate, drinker of the sparkling goblet. It required an outside coach journey of eighty miles, with the refreshing winds of an elevated table-land between his home and Edinburgh, to remove from his heated brow and face the inflaming influences that the separation banquet had produced; and yet he knew not that any law of God or man had been violated. It might appear that at the time of this ignorance God winked at it. For as yet no public blast had been sounded on drinking as such, and no one had as yet thought out the problem, that moderate and so-called respectable drinking laid the foundation, firm and deep, on which the superstructure of ignominy and ruin might hereafter be easily reared. Men at that day saw no evil in the fluid, no demon present in drinking parties, and therefore nothing to suspect and nothing to fear.

Ministers, parents, friends, the intended student simply followed in the wake of the masses, and just did what all others did around them.

Oswald's slight curvature from the main line of sobriety was to verge in the outer and more terrible terminus of degradation and woe; but this is to be reached by slow and almost imperceptible processes, which we must leave the next and successive chapters to delineate.

(To be continued.)

Our Future Prospects.

By JAMES HAUGHTON, Dublin.

ARE there any gratifiying circumstances in the retrospection of the past year, in relation to the Temperance Reformation in our country, to give us a fair ground of hope, that our labours during the ensuing year are likely to be crowned with such a measure of success as should induce those of us who shall be spared to pursue this great work for the elevation and the higher civilization of our countrymen to go forward in the work appointed for us, with that energy, and earnestness, and hopefulness, without which labours in this or in any other good cause cannot be productive of any satisfactory results?

It seems to me that this question may be answered in the affirmative. I think we may persistently press onwards in our labours, in the glad expectation that our work in the future will be more cheered by the approval of the wise and the good than it has been in the past. It seems to me that there are indications abroad that the glorious work in which we are engaged is steadily gathering around it an increasing number of the intelligent and the influential members of the community. The light is breaking in on many minds, that continuance of the Liquor traffic is incompatible with the peace and happiness of the community; and many who were before dead to the glaring evils resulting from our drinking customs, and deaf to the lamentations of wives and mothers, and starving little ones, can now see and hear, and are willing to acknow

ledge, that this unholy traffic, and these ruinous and indefensible customs-lying, as they do, at the very root of our social and domestic evils-must be put out of our way, before the labours of philanthropy and benevolence, and Christian love, in other directions, can be productive of any good or permanent results. It seems to me that there are indications abroad, that these truths are making more way into the hearts of our intelligent classes, and that, therefore, there are grounds for hope, that, in the coming year, the friends and warm supporters of the Temperance Reformation will increase in numbers, and give added impulse to a movement which must be made triumphant, before we can reasonably hope for any considerable amelioration of the distress and destitution which surround us.

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Whether or not I am right in taking this cheering view of our prospects, the future can alone determine. Certain I am, however, that until these views which I have indicated shall be adopted by all those who take any part in the work of human improvement, their labours will be in vain. So long as the distiller, the brewer, and the publican shall be permitted to carry on their unholy and their destroying traffic, it is idle to expect that any considerable diminution of crime and destitution can be effected; indeed, the probabilities, if not the certainties, are, that these evils will go on increasing year by year. And, furthermore, I may safely predict, that so long as the mischievous notion that the common use of alcoholic liquors may be safely indulged in, in moderation, by good men, prevails, it is an idle dream to suppose that the intemperance and drunkenness which abound can ever be gotten rid of. It is, therefore, no untruth to say it is, indeed, a truth forced on us by the hard logic of events, and by the experience of all countries, and of every age-that what men call moderate drinking, is the primary cause of the misery arising from intemperance, which all deplore and profess an anxiety to remove.

Two modes of operation for overthrow of these evils, are open to us. One of them is applicable to the private use of intoxicating liquors; the other, to their public sale.

These operations are distinct in their character; one appeals to the moral, the religious, and the Christian feelings of the community; it resorts to no force of any kind; it is purely persuasive in its action; it appeals to man as a reasonable, a reasoning, an intelligent, and a responsible being. It asks him to relinquish the use of intoxicating liquors, because they are ruinous in their nature; because they degrade man and dishonour God; and, therefore, no amount of pleasure which they yield can justify their use as a common beverage. Any practice in which we indulge, that is more injurious than beneficial, is condemned alike by common sense, and by religious sentiment, and should therefore be at once given up. I believe the use of alcohol cannot be sustained by any sensible argument; and if any one of your readers shall undertake to defend the contrary opinion, I shall be happy to discuss the question with him, in your columns, if such a measure meet your approval.

The other mode of operation contemplates the removal of this great nuisance, alcohol, as many other nuisances are removed, by the power of the Legislature. It seeks to overthrow the traffic in intoxicating liquors; but it does not purpose to interfere with their domestic use. If the "Permissive Bill" were in operation, it would not prevent the private manufacture of alcoholic liquors for private use; neither would it prevent the purchase of these liquors for private use, in districts where the Bill would not be in operation. The idea is, to place the whole matter of sale under public control, so that the people themselves, in our boroughs and municipalities, shall be perfectly free to decide whether the traffic shall continue, or be put an end to; and the Bill is to be so thoroughly popular in its leading features, that it shall have no legal force in any dis

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IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

trict, until two-thirds of the ratepayers shall be in its favour.

It is not easy to conceive of a measure more popular and more equitable than this; so that it is hoped it will meet with public approval, as soon as its provisions shall be generally understood.

These two modes of operation, it will be perceived, are quite distinct in their nature; and yet they work harmoniously together. They have a common object in view, and that is, to save society from the lamentable effects which flow from intemperance and drunkenness. By intemperance I mean that state in which men are partially, but not entirely, deprived by alcohol of their reasoning powers-that state which leads a Captain recklessly to run his ship into danger, and often to destroy the life of his passengers; that state which causes the railway driver to dash on also recklessly, regardless of the signal which would otherwise tell him to go cautiously forward, and which neglect is frequently the cause of horrible death and ruin to many. By drunkenness, I mean that condition which deprives men of all sense and reason; and which is indeed a deplorable condition, but by no means so destructive to life and property, as that unnatural condition of the brain which intemperance denotes. Herein we witness the mischiefs resulting from what is called moderate drinking.

This terrible poison, alcohol, flies to the brain; and there, when taken even in what men call moderation, it does its deadly work, such as I have described. But it does even worse than this; it destroys the moral sentiments, and it annihilates religious feeling. It sends the man, whom it has turned into a demon, to his dwelling to ruin the happiness of his wife and children; and it obliterates all his sense of responsibility to his family, to his country, to his God. All this mischief it creates, and it gives us no good in return. Its damnable mission in the world is evil and only evil. There is no "silver lining" behind this dark cloud.

Let Temperance reformers, looking to their past year of labour with some degree of gladness, pursue their useful course in the coming year, in the fond hope that, ere its close, brighter visions of glory, radiating from the Sun of Teetotalism, may be vouchsafed to them from God, in whom is all our trust, and from whom all blessings flow; but whose will it is that the human race shall conform to those laws of life and health which He has laid down for their government, before we can secure that happiness which is placed within our reach, if we be obedient to these laws.

If it were printed in letters of gold across the firmament-Alcohol is the enemy of all that is holy and good, -our duty to banish it for ever, would scarcely be more clearly pointed out to us than it now is, in the misery and desolation it creates all around us. I therefore say to all Temperance reformers, have faith in Godand work-work in this noble cause earnestly and perseveringly for the coming year, in faith and hope that a rich reward will crown your labours.

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ALL DE CONTRADICTION.'-A Frenchman who had not long been in England was invited to a friend's house, where a large bowl of punch was made, a liquor which he had never before seen, and which somewhat disagreed with him; but, having forgotten the name of it, he asked a person the next day, "What dey call dat liquor in England, which is all de contradiction; dere is de brandy to make it strong and de vater to make it weak, de sucre to make it sweet, and de lemons to make it sower?" "Punch," answered the other, “I suppose you mean." "Aye, ponche!" cries monsieur. "It almost ponche my brain out last night."

RECEIPT AGAINST DRUNKENNESS.--Take one gill of as good water as ever leaked from the sky, add one spoonful of loaf-sugar, a sprinkling of nutmeg, a bit of mint, one gill of the best French brandy, clap in a red hot poker, and then throw it anywhere but down your throat.

Selections for the Young.

WILLIE, THE RUNAWAY. ONE moonlight night, when all the house was still, Willie Nichols rose softly from his bed. He dressed himself quietly that he might not disturb his sister, or his little brother Bennie, who slept with him. Through the window of the attic room the moonbeams shone softly, and they threw their beautiful light on Fanny's pale face, and on Bennie's curling hair. They showed Willie the seams and cracks in the old wall, the trunk which his father had carried with him on his voyage years ago, and the little Bible on the stand. Precious little Bible! His Sabbath-school teacher had given it to him as a token of love, long before Willie had thought of ever being a runaway. Out of the window the same moonlight was falling softly on the old mulberry tree in the little garden, and making fantastic shadows of its leaves and branches upon the ground. It fell, too, upon the squire's white house, standing so proudly among the old stately trees, and upon the long, winding road that led to Farmer Benson's.

Willie stood trembling and irresolute, as he gazed upon the still world outside. For a moment his good angel whispered; "Stay, Willie! Do not leave your widowed mother and her little ones, and your dear home." But a whisper on the other side was louder still; and saying, "I can never go to Farmer Benson's," the boy dressed himself, tied up his few things, and his Bible among them. Then, with a last fond look at brother and sister, he stole out of the room and down the stairs. At his mother's door he paused, and put his hand upon the latch, but he did not venture to go in. His mother might awake, and Willie did not dare to meet her tender gaze, and ask a blessing upon his purpose.

Willie's mother was poor. Her husband's ship had been wrecked on a distant coast, and he had gone down with it. A hard struggle had Mrs. Nichols to procure food and fire for her little ones, though many of her neighbours were kind, and would have helped her if they could. But they were poor themselves and could give but kind wishes and a day's work, now and then, to the widow. Meanwhile, by various means, sewing, washing, nursing the sick, and, in fact, everything that a woman's ready hands could do-she had made both ends meet, until her three eldest children were old enough to help her. Robert and Mattie were learning trades, and Willie was to be bound out to a farmer.

The little fellow had objected to this; but his mother deemed it best for him, and the arrangements had been completed to her own satisfaction and that of Mr. Benson. Willie Nichols could find no fault with the farmer, who was a pleasant, genial man, with a kind word for every one; but he longed to go to sea. The sea, with

its wild blue waves, foam-crested, with its wildness and vastness, was the subject of his thoughts, day and night, "Oh, how free," thought Willie, "must a sailor's life be!"

But his mother had a horror of the ocean, ever since the letter came that told her of the wreck of the Flying Fish. Her boy had often heard her remark that "no son of hers should be a sailor." Willie had sometimes spoken of his wish; but his mother had said that, if he loved her, he would not mention the sea in her hearing. And so it was that Willie became a runaway. Down the stairs, through the little garden, out on the highway. The world before him! Cold, desolate, bitter world, that has tempted and disappointed so many! Home behind him, sweet home, with its hallowed memories! Home with its morning and evening altar of prayer, its charmed circle of loving ones, its recollection of a mother's kiss. Poor little wanderer! Ah, my boy, pause before you, like him, step out from the sweet refuge of your early home, into the storms and tempests of life.

IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

Before noon

Willie's home was near a seaport town. of the next day, he was on the deck of a ship bound for the south Pacific. When again the moon shone on the water, his native land was fading away in the distance. Willie did not find a sailor's life so free as he expected. There were hard words and hard blows to bear. There was coarser fare than he had been used to. There was climbing up the rigging when the waves were lashed by storms, and the ship rolled at her will. Many an hour of pain and home-sickness came to Willie, and sometimes his little hammock was wet with tears. Still it was not so hard for him as for many others. His prompt obedience and cheerful industry, his fearlessness and agility, made him a favourite on board; and there was not a man on the vessel who would not have risked life and limb to save the little fellow had he been in danger.

Eighteen months went by. They had touched here and there at different ports, and now and then they had spoken a vessel bound homeward, or perhaps bound still further away than they were themselves.

One day, the second mate, who was standing on deck, said suddenly to the boy

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"Willie, where did you come from?"
"From Lime, sir, near N-:'
"Did you run away?"

A tear gathered in Willie's eye, and his head drooped. No need of an answer.

"Have you a father and a mother?"

"A mother at home, but my father is dead." "Does you mother know where you are, my boy?" "No," said Willie; "I wouldn't let her know for the world. It would break her heart."

"Far worse to her to be in susper se. Twenty thousand miles from home, and your mother not know of it! No, Will! the first vessel we speak must carry a a letter to your mother. Remember, my boy!"

Willie promised, and began, in his leisure moments, a letter.

A few days afterwards, they were chasing a whale. This is very dangerous sport, for the huge creature, when wounded, strikes dreadful blows with its tail, and often capsizes boats, or breaks them to pieces. The boat which held Willie and four or five of the sailors had the bottom knocked out of it by a blow of the monster's tail. Pale, and dreadfully bruised, the boy was lifted up the ship's side, and laid in his hammock.

That night the mate watched by him till twelve o'clock. He had fallen into a gentle sleep, saying he would be all right in the morning. Bidding two of the men watch if he wanted anything, the kind mate, who had always been his friend, left him, that he might himself seek repose.

Morning came in its first gray light, and the mate returned to Willie's bed. The watchers, overcome by weariness, had fallen asleep. "Willie, how do you feel?" But Willie did not answer.

"He must be asleep," said his friend, surprised that no reply was given. He laid his hand on the boy's forehead. It was as cold as marble. He lifted the little hand. It fell pulseless and cold from his grasp.

It was

Alone, all alone, in the drear dead of night, without a mother's soft caress, or a sister's loving whisper, the little runaway boy had been called to die-alone, in the swinging ship, on the wide, wide sea. And, next day, as the sailors stood around in a solemn, silent circle, and they brought the little white form on deck. sewed up in the hammock, with only the face left uncovered, that all might see, for the last time, the beautiful features, and the brown wavy hair. The captain read the burial service; and then the canvas was sewed up, the weights put in at the feet, that it might sink more quickly to its ocean grave, and the body of Willie Nichols was let down into the waves. And, as the ship went faster and faster on its way, the little sailor-boy's form sank deeper to the botton of the sea, there to rest until the resurrection.

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The unfinished letter, and a curl of the brown hair, were placed in Willie's Bible, and sent home to his mother. But she had gone before; and we can but hope that little Willie had been, even at the last, led to repent and believe in Jesus, and so had met his dear mother in the heavenly home.

RESOLUTIONS FOR YOUNG MEN.

1. I will rise early in the morning, and make it a rule not to be out of the house after ten o'clock in the evening.

2. I will have a regular place of worship, where I will attend, forenoon and afternoon, on each Sabbath, unless prevented by sickness; and will never engage in business or amusement on that day.

3. I will endeavour to promote the interest of my employer as if it were my own.

4. I will not play with cards, nor gamble inany way, even for the smallest amount.

5. I will not drink wine, nor any other intoxicating liquor, as a beverage, under any circumstances.

6. I will carefully avoid all profane languages, and will not, voluntarily, associate with those who use it, or with those who are intemperate, or dissolute in their habits.

7. I will employ my leisure in such a manner as will have a tendency to improve my mind or health.

8. I will keep an accurate account of all the money I spend, and carefully avoid a habit of prodigality in my expenditures.

A REMEMBRANCER.-Not long since, when some forty boys, who had been rescued by a Juvenile Society of New York, were preparing to go to situations procured for them in the country, a boy was observed folding with great care his old cap, having previously taken out its lining, a small piece of faded calico. "John," called a friend, "what are you going to do with that greased calico?" "Please sir, it is not greased; it is all I have to remember my dead mother by. It's a part of her dress, which I cut off when she lay dying in the garret." The question and answer were too much for him, and putting the strip under his shirt, next to his breast, he buried his face in his hands, and filled the room with sobs. Ah, boys, may you who have living mothers have as tender a regard for them as this poor orphan had for his dead mother.

TOUCHING INCIDENT.-A lady had two children, both girls. The elder was a fair child; the younger a beauty, and the mother's pet. Her whole love centred in it. The elder was neglected, while "Sweet" (the pet name of the younger) received every attention that love could bestow. One day, after a severe illness, the mother was sitting in the parlour, when she heard little childish footsteps on the stairs, and her thoughts were instantly with the favourite. "Is that you, Sweet?" she inquired. "No mamma," "" was the sad, touching reply, "it isn't Sweet; its only me.' The mother's heart smote her, and from that hour "only me" was restored to an equal place in her affections.

EVIL COMPANY.-The following beautiful allegory is translated from the German :- Sophronius, a wise teacher, would not suffer even his grown-up son and daughters to associate with those whose conduct was not pure and upright. "Dear Father," said the gentle Eulalia to him one day, when he forbade her, in company with her brother, to visit the volatile Lucinda; "dear father, you must think us very childish, if you imagine we could be exposed to danger by it." The father took in silence a dead coal from the hearth, and reached it to his daughter. "It will not burn you, my child; take it." Eulalia did so, and behold, her beautiful white hand was soiled and blackened, and, as it chanced, her white dress also. "We cannot be too careful in handling coals," said Eulalia, in vexation. "Yes, truly," said the father; "you see, my child, that coals, even if they do not burn, blacken; so it is with the company of the vicious."

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IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

Chapters in Natural History.

THE HOUSE FLY.

The favourite position of this insect, so common in England, is the window, on the panes of which it may be seen constantly walking up and down. The power which it possesses of walking on smooth, upright surfaces has, in consequence, been a frequent theme of conjecture, and of not a small amount of observation. Some have thought that these creatures have sponges on their feet, filled with a sticky substance, which enables them to adhere to such surfaces; and others, that this is done by the feet being beset with small bristles. Sir Everard Home found, however, that they have flat skins, or flaps, like the feet of ducks and other web-footed animals, and towards the back part or heel, but inside the skin or flap two very small toes, so connected with the flap as to draw it close down on the glass or wall where the fly walks, and to squeeze out the air between the foot and the glass or wall. The pressure of the external air would, therefore, hold it fast for a time, as a boy's sucker of leather adheres to a stone; and as he lets in the air that it may be detached, so would the fly when it wishes its foot to be disengaged.

Mr. Hepworth, who has recently examined the structure of the fly's foot, says :-" The flap varies in form in different species, from an irregular circle to that of an irregular triangle; and, viewing it from one side, it is somewhat thicker at the base (near its attachment), the under surface being, when isolated, convex, but perfectly flat as a whole, when applied to a surface of that form. It appears to be composed of an upper and an under layer of areolar tissue, or something similar to it, between which a bundle of tubes, along with the fasciculi of a large muscle, pass. These are placed at its base, and (sometimes protected by a coat of mail,' formed by long scales, overwrapping each other as a Venetian blind, or in alternate ones, as the scales of a fish, &c., but more frequently wanting) expand in a radiated form. Each tube, as it passes along with its fellows on each side, gives off a number of tubules alternately with them. These dip downwards from the under surface, and become expanded into trumpet shaped extremities, the flap becoming thinner and thinner as it approaches its margin, which sometimes terminates in an irregulary serrated edge, and at others by finely-pointed hairs.

"The fly has the power of attaching itself to smooth surfaces by these trumpet-shaded extremities, and also of secreting a fluid from them, when vigorous, and it has occasion to make extra exertions; but in a partially dormant state (the best for making observations) it does not appear to be able to give out this secretion, although it can still attach itself; indeed, this fluid is not essential for that purpose. When it is secreted, it is deposited on the glass with great regularity. I have often attempted to preserve these markings by applying colouring matter whilst they were moist, but have not yet succeeded. The tubules are often seen protruding from under the margin of the flap, in a semi-arch-like form, giving it a fringed appearance."

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"How does a fly buzz?" is a question more easily asked than answered. "With its wings, to be sure," hastily replies one of our readers. "With its wings as they vibrate upon the air," responds another, with a smile, half of contempt, half of complacency, at his own more than common measurement of natural philosophy. But how, then, let us ask, can the great dragon-fly, and other similar broad-pinioned, rapid-flying insects, cut through the air with silent swiftness, while others go on buzzing when not upon the wing at all? Rennie, who has already put this posing query, ascribes the sound partially to air; but to air as it plays on the "edges of their wings at their origin, as with an Eolian harp string," or to the "friction of some internal organ on the root of the wing nervures."

Poetry.

OUR MISSION!

BEGIN! The day-dawn of a better time
Has long been looked for, and not all in vain ;
That dawn is breaking, and the morn sublime
Will come when truth has universal reign.
Though War make desolate, and Want should pine
In the dark chamber, weary and forlorn;
On earth mild Charity and Love divine
Remain to usher in the better morn.
Change marks creation. Time, as evermore,
Presents the evil and the good at strife;
Some labour on an Eden to restore-

To make all earth a scene of holy life-
To raise our fallen nature, to bestow
New hopes and aims to custom's feeble slaves,
And lift the yearning soul, with love a-glow,
Beyond the spray of Passion's angry waves.
The Tempter sits upon the rock, and calls
The youthful voyager to come and share
Abounding pleasure in her fairy halls,

Where song and music load the perfumed air;
Her voice is like a lute, her form has power

To lull the soul into a dream of bliss ;
The boy is charmed: he yields, and in that hour
Slides 'er the crater of a dread abyss.
Oh! there is work to do: the busy town

And hamlet fair-o'er all the pleasant Isle-
Are filled with men, who wander up and down,
Chained to a habit terrible as vile.
Little by little-lured from day to day

By friendship false and gradual desire,
They drink a poison, waste their lives away,
And like the hopeless suicide, expire.
Oh, how restrain them? 'Tis for earnest men,
Who love the truth, to battle for the right;
To drag the monster vices from their den,

And try to crush them in the open light,
Be this our task; and while our hearts expand
With hopeful effort, may we seek to share
From all the good and virtuous of the land,
Their generous aid, their countenance and prayer!
Belfast.
T. H.

THE PAUPER'S BURIAL. BENEATH a cold and lonely roof

A pauper child lay dead;

No friends were mourning near the place,
Nor tear of grief was shed.
Upon his breast no flowers were laid,
No lights were burning by:
He lay as if he ne'er had seen
A mother's watchful eye.

His shroud-if so it could be called-
Scarce closed around his breast;
His eyes were glazed, and open stil;
His icy lips imprest.

No ribbon bound his slender limbs,
Nor lawn lay o'er his face;
It was a heart-appalling sight
To see him in that place.

His hand lay loosely by his side,
His head low on the clay;

No one was near that cared for him,
As pass'd his life away.

The snow was wreathing everywhere;
The wind was whistling round;
Within that dreary charnel-house
No soothing voice was found,

Above him all was dark and damp;
No pleasing thing was there;
For sunbeam seldom enters it,
Or breath of vernal air.
A sigh burst from my bosom when
I looked into his face,

And found it like a withered flower
In some deserted place.

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