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THE IRISH

Temperance League Journal

VOL. I.]

To our Readers.

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of a staff of such engages our first attention, and in this we have every hope of success. In the compilation of interesting Temperance intelligence, and the selection of fresh and attractive extracts for instruction, entertainment, and amusement of a really rational description, we shall exercise a degree of discrimination which will, at least, entitle us to popular approval. To the requirements of the young, in such a publication as ours, we purpose devoting regularly such proportion of space as may be at our disposal, that section of the community being one which has special claims upon the friends of Temperance, not only as having already given a great number of the most promising recruits to the cause, but as supplying an instrumentality of the most important character in disseminating the principle and practice of Total Abstinence. Hitherto, in the progress of this moral movement, we have had abundant proofs that out of the mouths of such as these "God hath perfected praise."

TO-DAY we enter upon a mission of love; and deeply conscious of its responsibility and importance, we do so with becoming humility, yet earnestly, trustfully, hopefully. Among the many zealous and energetic laborers at the Press who have already occupied the wide field before us, we look for an encouraging welcome in joining their goodly company. In none of the great and prosperous schemes of moral and social advancement and elevation is the truth of the precept, that "union is power," more obvious or of greater practical effect than in the now national and irrepressible movement for the universal diffusion of the Temperance principle; nor in any of them is it so indispensable to success that the worker should be persistent, patient, persuasive yet firm-his efforts unceasingly directed to the one great end, yet promoting it by the varied means which the ever-changing phases of society may render expedient. Every addition to the band of devoted toilers in this glorious enterprise is, in itself, a present and a prospective victory over the antagonistic evil-the common enemy; for there is no laborer, however humble, in our good cause, who will not approve himself valiant for the truth. In this view we venture to hope that we ourselves the latest addition to the literary section of the Temperance army-may be found worthy of the position assigned to us; while we shall vigilantly and faithfully watch over the momentous interests we have undertaken to guard and promote, and endeavour to become a useful, practical, and persevering auxiliary in a pro-and incidental discouragements, but supply incentives ject in which the laborers are still too few, abundant as is the harvest to be reaped.

It is scarcely requisite for us to say that our first issue is not to be regarded as more than an approximate specimen of what "THE IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL" is intended to be. The pressure of time and the impossibility of perfecting arrangements, inseparable from the getting out of the opening number, will, we trust, explain any shortcomings which our pages may disclose. To the remedy of such matters we shall assiduously apply ourselves from month to month; and we have reason to believe that, within a very limited period, we shall be enabled to exhibit a development which shall secure for us the favor and respect of an extensive circle of readers, helpers, and well-wishers. Even at our advent, it will be seen that we have been honored with valuable contributions from writers widely known and appreciated. The formation

We have now started fairly and hopefully upon the path we have marked out for ourselves; we have put our hand vigorously to the Temperance plough; and be the issue what it may, we shall not falter or turn back. To encounter difficulties, to meet with some share of discouragement and opposition, and not to expect too liberal a reward for our hearty efforts for the good of others, are matters for which we are of course prepared. On the other hand, however, we look forward, with a reasonable confidence, to such a measure of acceptance among those whose good opinion we shall most prize, as will not only compensate for these minor

to increased effort and hope of permanent usefulness. Friends of this kind we trust to find in no stinted number among the thriving societies affiliated with the Irish Tempearnce League, and those not as yet in connexion with it, among the numerous and influential parties who patronise the cause without being themselves members of any association; and among those who simply approve of the Temperance principle, desire for it full success, and only hesitate to publicly adopt it from timidity or false delicacy as to "the world's opinion." All these, if so disposed, and if warranted by the claims we shall endeavour to establish, can lend us an efficient helping hand by their personal support and recommendation, and by assisting in the distribution of the JOURNAL in those dark places where the light of truth rarely penetrates, and especially among our erring brothers and sisters who are still slaves under the inexorable thraldom of intemperance.

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IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

Rough Waters.

BY

JAMES WILLIAM RUMSEY, B.A.

CHAPTER I.

THE FORGER'S ESCAPE.

THE night mail was just prepared to start from a London terminus-the bell had rung, the porters were hastily piling the luggage in the vans, whilst the pas sengers were arranging themselves in cosy corners of soft, padded carriages, when a figure is seen hastily pacing up the platform. Many others are hurrying to and fro, but there is something which marks out that one figure from all the rest. There is a nervous hastiness in all his motions, there is a restless quickness in his eyes. He avoids the gaze of others; even the porter, who asks him his destination, is hastily dismissed with a curt reply. Not till the train moves off, and the lights of the station gradually disappear in the distance,

this singular character at all composed. He has good reason for that concern which his countenance and movements so forcibly betrayed on commencing his journey. Others had done what Richard Singleton had now committed; others, with seared hearts and minds hardened, had perpetrated the same act, and it cost them no uneasiness; but Richard Singleton was a novice in crime. His was the first step into forbidden paths; nor had he deliberately chosen to leave the path of rectitude. There were family ties which were dear to him-there were business connections very valuable to be forgone-there was the honour, the respect, the esteem of his acquaintances, all precious in his sight. What, then, could have drawn him from the straight undeviating course of right? The same circumstances which have led to the ruin of many others-the rash, foolish counsels of bad companions. These had led him away from the fireside of home, these had rendered him careless in expenditure, and reckless expenditure had induced him to perform what now unnerves his mind, and fills him with strange forebodings -to forge a check. The merchant who reposed the utmost confidence in his uprightness has been duped, and duped too without knowing it.

Speeding on in the black night, flashing like a meteor in the heavens, the train tore along its way. There was something in the blackness of the night, and the onward rushing of the tireless iron steed, which accorded with the spirit of Richard Singleton. The giddy whirl, the rapid passage of objects dimly seen, the blazing ever and anon of fiery furnaces, as the mining districts were passed, were like so many pictures of his own disordered mind. He was whirling he knew not where, and the circumstances of the past and the future seemed as dim to his mind's eye, as the towns and villages which the train was hurrying past, save the one act which, like a burning fire, wrapped his mind in a quenchless flame.

The imprisoned captive, walled in by huge granite enclosures, with only a ray of sunlight piercing the chinks of his prison wall, may enjoy peace; the sailor boy tossed on the tempestuous ocean, may too realize the blessings of a peaceful mind; but there is no peace to him, however outwardly free, whose conscience convicts him of guilt. There is a monitor within us who is more exacting in inflicting punishment than any monitor without. We may fly from, and escape the hands of justice, but we never can elude that silent inward avenger who tracks the heels of crime. Richard Singleton had eluded the vigilance of justice. forgery was not yet discovered, and might perhaps remain for years without being brought to light; yet, notwithstanding this, he had an inward misgiving. When he stepped out upon the platform at Liverpool, he was fearful that even now the telegraph might have flashed up the intelligence of his defalcation; and so

The

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To where, though, should he turn? If he puts up at an hotel, his person will be observed. He loses time in forming his purpose. He feels that he must quit England altogether. Yes, England, in whose metropolis he had often indulged the hope of rising to wealth and greatness-England, which contained all that he loved on earth, must be left, must be exchanged for a land of semi-barbarism. Australia-the receptacle of so many broken fortune-hunters, and ruined hopes, where the old stager in clime goes to drag out the remainder of a wasted life, and the hot-headed, ungovernable youth rushes, in order to escape the restraints of a civilized home-must be the future abode of Richard Singleton. An emigrant ship in Liverpool is easily found, and a berth easily booked, and so the forger soon found himself setting sail, and the yeasty waves yielding before the ship's prow.

"There is a time to weep," says Solomon. That time had now come to many on board that emigrant ship, and especially to the individual whose career we have thus far watched. Thos. Hood, in his "Bridge of Sighs," - as he describes the " one more unfortunate weary of breath," madly plunging into the murky waters to drown herself and her shame together-touchingly asks, "Had she a mother? Had she a sister? Had she a nearer one still, and a dearer one yet than all other?" May we not offer some inquiry, as we watch Richard Singleton leaving his native shores, and plunging into a condition perhaps worse than death. Richard Singleton has a mother, one who looked to him as the prop and stay of her life. He had sisters, too, whose affections were tenderly entwined around his soul. These ties are suddenly snapped; a blight, more withering than the winter blast upon the flowers of spring, has scathed his youthful prospects. Who that knows the blessings of a home-the happy, cheerful companionship of relatives they love-does not sorrow when necessity compels them to tear themselves away from their engrossing charms, to battle with a harsh, cold, calculating world? But in the strife of business, and the vexatious annoyances of life, the happy memories of home life come floating back, and sound upon the mind like angel's music, and the anticipation of their return braces a man for exertion, and imparts a stimulus which nothing else affords. But when home memories can only be looked back on with pain-when there is a wide deep gulf between them and us, making our return to them for ever impossible-what heart-rendings there will be-what vain remorse--what unfathomable weights of sorrow. The desert of life stretches out before us, but no green spot, with waving palms, and cooling streams appear in the distance, to urge us on, and to promise a sweet compensation for our labours when they are past the sun pours down upon us with its burning heat, the scorching wind of affliction visits us, and there is no place of refuge to which we may fly. Truly, as the Scripture says, "The way of transgressors is hard." By bitter experience Richard Singleton was now proving the truth of this; and shut off from all friends, exiled from home, his spirit, usually strong and high, was bowed down with grief.

As he lay in the berth of his vessel he had opportunities of calmly reviewing the past, and he could trace clearly each step which led him on to the final one of ruin and disgrace. At first, on entering the duties of Mr. Gilby's office, he had applied himself diligently and gained the respect and confidence of his employer. He had risen step by step till his salary had become considerable, nearly amounting to £300 per annum. By this his mother, who had been early left a widow, was able to maintain a comfortable house. Being of good family and highly connected, Mrs. Singleton was able to command a first class education for her children. Henry, the second son, was on the foundation of one of the large

IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

public schools, and' progressing well in his studies. Adelaide, a girl of prepossessing manners and appearance, who had just completed her education, and was just bursting out into the full bloom and beauty of womanhood; and Amelia-or Amy, as she was always called-a playful happy child about eight or nine years old, completed the family circle.

Whilst Richard kept steadily to the office, all things went on well. The evenings at home were always enlivened by some pleasant cheerful recreation, and were looked forward to as the happiest portion of the day But the time came when Richard was less at home. He offered no explanation, but Mrs. Singleton saw all was not right. A mother, quick at all times to notice a change in her children, saw in his eye something which she could not understand, but something which caused her grief. There was not the same interest manifested in little family concerns, as there once was, and when little Amy was prattling away, there was no cheerful, merry reponse as there used to be. He might be often observed in a vacant stare, and when he thought none were noticing him, would give a sudden start, as if some awful calamity had first occurred to his mind. These were forbodings of ill. But who would have thought that they would lead to such consequences, not Kichard's mother. She never for a moment could have imagined it. As, then, Richard lay, half thinking, half dreaming of all this, in the cabin of his vessel, a fearful thought oppressed him, not what he would suffer himself, not what disgrace would be heaped for ever on his name, if his crime was discovered, but what would become of his mother, of his helpless sisters and brother.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. SINGLETON'S TROUBLES.

The

In a low dingy office, barely furnished, and looking as if it rarely was favoured with the attentions of a duster or sweeping brush, sat a man of middle age. His face bore marks of care. Business seemed ingrained as it were in those long wrinkles which were traced so deeply on his countenance. Mr. Gilby had not borne the weight of years without their leaving their impress on him. He was a cool, phlegmatic man, and, like many business men in our large cities, not easily deprived of his settled equanimity. occurrence of any national disaster is received by such men as these with perfect indifference, so long as it does not affect the stocks. Everything is reduced to that level. We may well imagine, therefore, that the absence of a clerk from his post would not excite, at first, any serious apprehensions. Mr. Gilby looked round the dingy apartment, and saw Mr. Singleton's desk vacant. He contented himself with the thought that the absence would be only brief, and that a severe reprimand, or a threatened reduction in salary, would bring the truant to a better mind. He little knew how far off that truant was from ever returning to his accustomed duties.

The clock struck eleven, and then twelve, and no one came. There was important business to be transacted on that day, and Mr. Gilby was particularly anxious for the presence of a confidential adviser. As the time wore on, he grew still more restless. Two o'clock came, and his patience was exhausted. The porter is sent with a telegraphic message to Mrs. Singleton's house in Upper Norwood. The message is despatched, and in half-anhour the messenger returns with the answer. Quickly Mr. Gilby snatches the fragment of paper from the servant's hand, and reads the following:-" Mrs. Singleton has not seen her son since yesterday morning, and is most distressed about him, not knowing in the least where he is." Mr. Gilby, on reading this, exhibited more emotion than was usual with him, then crumpled the paper up, and resumed his accounts. the absence of his clerk gave him any concern in the after part of the day, it was not any solicitude for his

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safety, but a vexed feeling that he was not present to render his usual assistance in transacting the business of the day.

Was it thus, though, with the family at Upper Norwood. No; they are thrown into a state of the utmost consternation. The evening previous they had expected Richard's return as usual, and attributed his prolonged absence to some special engagement. Even his not coming at night, though unusual, did not give rise to any very great fears. It was thought that of course he would be at his office in the morning. But when the telegraph arrived from Mr. Gilby this idea was completely dispelled. Something serious must have happened, it was now thought by all; and little Amy, who always made the pictures in Punch her peculiar study, was the first to suggest that her brother Richard had been garotted. She had often playfully told him that he ought to carry the big sword that hung up in the hall along with some other mediæval armour, but now she looks serious as she conceives the danger has really fallen upon him of which she used to joke. Mrs. Singleton heard this proposition at first with incredulity, but afterwards, when Adelaide and Henry both announced their opinion to be the same as Amy's, she, too, became apprehensive that her eldest son had fallen a prey to some desperate ticket-of-leave man.

There is something alarming in an unknown evilin an hazy, undefined calamity. A distress, of whose extent and proportions we are acquainted, may be difficult to bear, but as we feel its poignancy, we are fully persuaded that our sufferings will not exceed a certain limit. But the gloomy foreboding of a distress whose depths we cannot fathom, whose sufferings we cannot estimate, is overwhelming to the strongest minds. At one time fear will magnify the supposed calamity to gigantic proportions; at another, hope will cast a ray of light over its darkest features. Such was Mrs. Singleton's case. At times she felt that her son had suffered the worst of evils, at other times a faint hope would steal over her soul that he would yet return, and gladden again the home circle. She was not, however, one who allowed despair to crush her down. In the depths of her grief she resolved on the best mode of acting, and resolutely followed out her plans. She instituted a search all over the house for any fragment of paper left by the lost one. His bedroom was searched, his drawers examined, his coats carefully investigated to see if there was one sign, one small indication left of his purpose in departing. All efforts were spent in vain.

At one time it was thought that a clue was found to the mystery; a small piece of paper was discovered under the looking glass in Richard's rooin. On this paper was written. "Shall be back the day after to-morrow, R.S." This seemed like sunshine arising on the dark horizon. But it was soon clouded again, as Henry remembered that this piece of paper had been written by his brother a week or two before, in order to acquaint his family with a hurried business call he had received to the country. There was great disappointment visible on all countenances when this announcement was made. Little Amy, who had become quite merry thinking her brother would quickly return, and who had been laughing over the fears she had raised about his being garotted, quickly sobered down again, when she learned that the few words written on a piece of paper referred to a circumstance which occurred a week or two before.

It was a sad sight to see that family on that evening, and yet a deeply interesting one. They were gathered round the fire, each one expressing an opinion, each one trying to allay the fears of the other, and Mrs. Singleton striving, as was always her custom in every time of trouble, to direct her children to look for sup port and strength to Him who has promised to be the God of the fatherless and the friend of the widow.

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IRISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE JOURNAL.

In the midst of this conversation, when each one was trying to read comfort in the other's face, Henry started up, and, as if seized with a brilliant idea, said, "Oh mamma, I have it exactly, I know how we shall find out about Richard directly." All looked to Henry to hear what wonderful proposition he was going to make. "Why," he said "however was it we did not think of it before? Advertise in the Times, to be sure-every one is able to find out about every one in that way, I

know."

Mrs. Singleton smiled at Henry's idea of the allpowerful nature of advertisements in the Times newspaper; but, she said, "Now you have suggested about advertisements, it may be well to look at the paper and see if Richard has there given any notice of his departure."

The servant was immediately despatched to the lending library, where the Times was procurable, and she made her way quickly back, knowing the importance of the information her mistress desired. Mrs. Singleton's eye quickly scanned over that second column of the advertising sheet, which the curious are so fond of going over, and conjecturing what all the short names, and symbolic characters mean, and her attention was at once drawn to one which seemed unmistakeably addressed to her. "What is it, mamma?" cried every voice, as they saw her change of countenance on viewing the advertisements.

She read with a feeble utterance-"Dearest motherI am gone to Australia. The reason I cannot tell you now, but you may perhaps know it some day. An affectionate farewell to you all, to A, and A, and H." She read it again and again-"That must be to us, she says, "I would not consider it being addressed to me sufficient to identify it, but he expressly, you see, remembers his sisters and his brother in his farewell." "How strange! how mysterious !" said Adelaide, "to think that he would hurry away from us all in this way, without ever saying good-bye." Amy crept up to her mamma, and laid her little head on her lap, and cried bitterly, "Richard will never, never come back, I am sure," she said, and then she buried her face in her handkerchief, and wept again. She had often read of bush-rangers, and the rough characters who make Australia their home, and she thought that if her brother, accustomed to all the refinements of civilised life, was thrown amongst these, he would certainly sink under the hardships, or perhaps come to a worse end by violence. Henry, who seemed to be less moved by the intelligence just received than the rest of the party, had not yet expressed any opinion. After the first burst of astonishment was over,--very seriously and solemnly, he says, Mamma, I think I can throw a little light on the matter. Since I slept in Richard's room, I thought there was something wrong with him. Sometimes he would talk in his sleep, sometimes sigh heavily, and it seemed to me as if there was a great burden on his mind. I thought at first that it was perhaps only pressure of business, and that it was the effect of his mind being overworked in the office during the day, but the other night I was undeceived, and I became acquainted with the real cause of his distress of mind.

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Do trust me, do trust me,' he said again and again in his sleep. 'You'll ruin me, you'll ruin my family, if you press me to pay,' he often repeated, in the most agonising manner. I did not ask him any questions in the morning, or acquaint any of you with it, as I thought it might be only an ordinary bill which a creditor might be pressing him to pay. But I am convinced now, that it was a debt incurred in gambling which oppressed him so much."

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'Gambling, gambling!" replied Mrs. Singleton; "surely my Richard has not come to this. I often noticed something strange about his manner lately, but I never imagined that he had sunk to this level."

There was a long pause. Grief stopped the mouths

of all. A grievous affliction, like some terrible thunderbolt, had stricken a happy united family. The idol of the household temple lay shattered in pieces. The mother saw the hope of her life, the stay of her declining years, rudely torn away; and loving sisters beheld the withdrawal of him who was to them like sunlight in the darkness--like the sturdy oak to the tender ivy shoots, which cling around its branches. Early deprived of a father, they had regarded with more than ordinary affection their elder brother. In the excess of grief, we are apt to forget the practical results of the loss over which we grieve. The widow, in the first paroxyism of her sorrow, often forgets the destitution which widowhood entails; so with this sorrowing family. In the first outburst of sorrow, the full measure of their affliction was not apprehended. But soon it dawns upon them. The picture grows more blank, more desolate, as they gaze upon it. The principal source of income gone, the wherewithal to pay butcher's, baker's, grocer's bills (all very necessary in their way), is removed. Numbers will feel for their condition, and sympathise in their woe; but who will contribute to the maintenance of the widow and her family? The world will treat them as it serves others like them, leave them to struggle through as best they may. How hard that struggle is, many

too well know. The poor have their sufferings, their privations, their experiences of hunger and cold, but no poverty is so biting to them, as it is to those who have been accustomed to the comforts and many of the luxuries of an easy competence, and are suddenly deprived of them. Mrs. Singleton, as we have before said, was one who did not allow difficulties to weigh her down. She looked them bravely in the face, and devised the best means of overcoming them. Now that she perceives that the principal source of the subsistence of her family is gone, she looks round for the best way of remedying the deficiency. Henry can no longer be maintained at school; he must seek at once some opening by which he will be able to earn his bread. Adelaide, refined and accomplished, must lay out her powers to some account. In what direction may they be expended? In what engagements can any young, educated lady, who, by some unforeseen chance, is thrown upon her own resources, be employed? Shameful it is for the 19th century to have to confess, there is but one opening for such, and that one oftentimes of the most abject drudgery, one in which to earn the smallest pittance she must slave night and day, wear the mind's energies, be subjected to the insults and opprobrium of half educated superiors -superiors who take advantage of the little exaltation money has given them, to snub, to crush, to persecute those whose worldly means are small. The occupation of governess, then, must be Adelaide Singleton's, for the future. Her delicate, sensitive nature was unfit for meeting with the rebuffs and rough treatment to which the class she was entering are often exposed. She was like those tender flowers who only bloom in sheltered, retired spots. The quiet seclusion of home was what she loved best, and around it she spread a gentle hallowing influence. When then she heard it first proposed for her to seek the position of governess, she could scarcely control her feelings. But a mother's teaching, and a higher teaching yet, had not been instilled in vain, and with a true bravery of soul she refrained from exhibiting any symptom of grief, which she knew would only add to Mrs. Singleton's distress. Henry, too, had much to forego. There was always pleasure in looking forward to the return of the time when he would be bounding over the fields with his school-companions, joining in their sports, telling of all his home experiences, and hearing them tell theirs. All this must now come to an end. Would his companions, too, hear of the cause of his not returning? This, perhaps boyish pride, troubled him not a little. At the family altar that night there were offered up no

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