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A GLIMPSE INTO THE HEAVENS.-THE WIDOW.

system-the system of one solitary star among countless millions of equals and superiors. The sun, when beheld from nearer worlds than ours, looks very much larger than it does to us; and, as beheld from more distant worlds, it looks less, in proportion to their distances. As seen from any star region, it twinkles like a star. There are infinite regions from which it cannot be seen at all, its light fading away, and being unable to reach them.

The sun is not a globe of fire. Its dazzling glory is an envelope. It is a coating of ineffable and glowing splendor, such as belongs only to suns, and of which worlds like ours are destitute. We know nothing of its nature; we cannot even give to it a name. It gives light and heat to the body of the sun, and to more than eighty planets, planetoids, or little planets, and moons. Comets also are illuminated by it, and those wonderful wanderers, of a light, gaseous substance, like the solid worlds, reflect its brightness. The sun is equal in bulk to 73,000,000 moons; and yet it appears no larger than the moon, because its distance is just as many times greater as its diameter or width. There is no night in the sun, for it has no shadow of itself, like the earth. Sunshine reigns all round it for ever: it has

an eternal day.

The sun is so large as to take rank among the stars; but the moon is so small as not to be seen from any world but this. God made it to swing for ever round the earth, as a ball with a string may swing round your hand. One side of the ball so swung would always look towards your hand; and one side of the moon, whether that side be in day sunshine or in night shadow, always looks towards the earth, so that the earth is always visible from that side, and never from the other; and the earth must be a fixture in the moon's sky, never higher or lower, as the sun would be in ours, if the earth turned round only once while going once round the sun. If you could come from the other side of the moon round to the earthward side, you would first see the top of the earth's disc peeping above the horizon, and, as you came to the middle of that side of the moon, the earth would seem to rise in the heavens, until you would see it overhead, while the moon at the same time seems to be overhead on the earth. The earth is a moon to the moon. Our daylight is reflected on its night shadow, as its daylight is on ours, but much more brightly, as the earth is much larger than the moon. The earth's continents

and oceans, its polar snows and tropical green, its glorious atmosphere, its ever-shifting scenery of cloud, beheld on the sunny side, its rapid changes of day and night, and its disc, being four times wider, and having an area thirteen times larger than the moon's, must cause it to be a grand and gorgeous object in the sky of the moon.

The companion worlds of the earth appear to us, as our world appears to them, to be in constant motion among the stars, sometimes to disappear from the night side from which only they can see each other, and always to shine with a steady light. Ancient Pagans supposed them to be the residences of their gods. The little world nearest to the sun they called Mercury, the god of eloquence. The morning and evening star, from its great brightness, is Venus, the goddess of beauty. The ruddy planet is Mars, the god of war. Jupiter, the abode of their supreme god, is the great planet which, unlike Venus, sometimes appears overhead; and Saturn, the seat of their god of heaven, is the most distant planet the ancients knew. Venus is a morning or evening star, because, in circling round the sun, it appears on its opposite sides. Mars is double the distance from the earth that the earth is from Venus; and all the

planets beyond seem to double their several distances from each other. The greater their distance is from the sun the slower is their progress along their orbits, and the longer are they in going round them.

Several thousands of stars are visible from the

solar worlds. A very good telescope reveals hundreds of millions more, many of which loom forth like faint clouds of shining atoms. These are so distant that their light takes many thousands of years to reach the earth; and yet light travels from the earth to the moon and back in little more than two seconds of time. We may judge what a star is by what our sun is, for the sun is but a star, and all stars are suns. The nearest of the stars is so far away that, though it is a sun, no telescope can make it look larger than a star. Oh, how vast is the abyss of space between our world and that! and yet the human mind has measured and crossed it, in thought. That starry sun is equally distant from the next, and all the units in the millions which crowd our skies, with their faint glimmers and specks of light, may be equally distant from each other. Suns cannot be seen from each other, even as they cannot be seen in daylight from the planets. If each sun has such a cluster of worlds around it as our sun, there must be thousands of millions of worlds, from all which the same twinkling lights may be seen which we see. Daylight reveals both the sun and the scenery of the earth, but it also conceals the grand visions of the infinite and eternal which darkness reveals. Let me look upwards when no vapors obscure the air. How calm are the clear heavens above, while human passions are in agitation like a troubled sea! I, an erring mortal, who must shortly inhabit a grave, now look into the palace of God. A part of the infinite is uncurtained before me. I look through a telescope, when, lo! thick crowds of suns appear, in boundless perspective, in each handbreadth of sky. But the whole sky is only a handbreadth of infinity. The faintest glimmer I can see has been a million years in coming thither, and the very lights I now see from the nearest stars will be just as long in being spent, as they twinkle on in every direction, across dark, cold, and silent realms of space. What a Presence is that which at the same time, and at every time, fills all those realms! And how infinite must be that power, wisdom, and love, which created blazing suns and rolling and rocking worlds, balanced their weights, gave them moving forces, bent their orbits, fixed their times, adorned them with beauty, and replenished them with abundance and life! Hanley.

The Widow.

AYE, Boniface, look-he lies at my feet-
Dead-dead in his madness and sin-
Gone forth in the dark his Maker to meet,

Soul-murdered by you and your gin!
'Twas nothing to you that he had a wife,
Or daughter so bonnie and fair-
Your drink must be sold-you blasted his life,
And made it a hell of despair!

You tempted him forth, from me and from love,
From the smile of his bright fire-side ;-
Till drink round his heart its death-garland wove,
And here, in a cellar, he died!

CONCERNING CHRISTIAN TEMPERANCE.

149

Look, Boniface, look; nay, nay, but you must,
You've tippled together, you know,—

Till fierce grew the flames of passion and lust,
And darker the clouds of my woe!

Through many and many a lonesome night,
I've watch'd through the darkness and gloom,
And silently wept till the morning light

Illumin'd my desolate room;

Till homeward your victim, staggering, came,
All penniless-ruined--and wild!

O God! what a life of terror and shame
You brought unto me and my child!
Aye, frown on me, man, 'tis honester far
Than ever the soft honied smile,

With which, Judas-like, in your shining bar
You waited your dupes to beguile.
Far better to kneel at the poor-house gate,
And to eat of the pauper's bread,

Than bear on one's soul the maddening weight,
Of the curse that springs from the dead.

Begone; man, begone! No curses I fling

On your head, as forth you depart;
For "Vengeance is mine," saith Creation's King,
Who owneth the love of my heart.

But when the last day shall summon the dead
Before their Great Judge to appear,
You'll tremble and shrink with feelings of dread
As the murd'rer's sentence you hear.

JOHN PLUMMER (Iron Pen).

Concerning Christian Temperance.

By REV. WM. MAGILL, Cork. THE object of this paper is not to communicate information to you, but rather to persuade you to act on what you already know. Look to your next neighbour; walk the next street at eventide; look in at a tavern as you pass; remember the scenes of the last market day; visit the poorhouse or gaol; go into the sick room of the inebriate; or take up a number of this Journal, and you will see enough to convince you that there is patent and great evil which requires a speedy remedy.

It is a great evil among men that they know and do not. Many a farmer is acquainted with agricul tural chemistry who fails to apply it to the raising of his crops. There are traders who have mastered the ethical code that underlies commercial operations, but whose conduct seldom comports with its principles. The laws of health are known to many who thoughtlessly trample on them, even although they have to pay dearly for their unholy daring. And, worst of all, there are multitudes who know the way home to glory, but who never walk in it. It is not therefore strange that men should be found, and that in large numbers, who know the evils of drink, but who are nevertheless doing nothing to mitigate or remove them.

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to make atonement for occasional inebriation or habitual indifference to the wave of fire that is rolling over the land, by earnest speaking on the subject now and again, by commending to others what they do not practise themselves, or by hurling their indignant anathemas against indulgence in drink. Are you acting as a rational being ought, as a Christian man should, on the information you possess regarding the evils of drink-that is the question?

No doubt, in every department of morals, doing is the difficulty-but it is the glory also. What, if the statistics of crime, and insanity, and vice, and death, and hell, as connected with drink, were all written on the volume of your memory? What, though the ravages, in a moral and spiritual point of view, of this sweeping pestilence, were familiar to you as household words? What, though you could weep streaming tears over wives that were widowed, and children that were orphaned, and families that were lying under the horrors and atrocities of drunken tyranny? What, though you could paint to the life one of those sulphurous dens in which drunkards are manufactured, over the orgies of which devils stand aghast ?All these are nothing compared with a life marked by devotion to the great cause of Christian temper

ance.

Some excuse their reckless apathy on this subject by impeaching the principles of temperance reformers -of whom some are supposed to go too far, and others not to go far enough. Others object to pledges and fraternities, boasting of their freedom and individual independence. Others, again, like an occasional glass, and could never think, on convivial occasions, when surrounded with youth and beauty and friendship, of dispensing with drink. Others, still, are very much afraid that they can do nothing, are deeply impressed with their moral insignificance, and are rendered hopeless by the gigantic wave of alcohol which they see foaming and advancing up to them. I fear, too, that there are some who have claims to be considered thinkers who are too much under the dominion of appetite, and to whom the meats and the drinks of earth are the chief good.

The prevalence of drinking customs does not say much for the intellectual dignity of man, not to mention his moral excellence. The creation, the world around and within you, the problems of social life, the demands of business, the progress of thought and opinion, the delights of literature, the interests of the species in their educational developments-all is abandoned for drink. Under its influence man sinks into a demon, and riots in wickedness and misery. The world is filled with intellectual pleasures; they spring around our footsteps, they trickle down our mountains, they gush from our skies, they teem in the exercise of the benevolent affections, they come trooping, and leaping, and smiling along every path of virtue, but the intoxicating cup is preferred to them all. The heart is corrupted, therefore-the very mind is enthralled.

Vital piety lies in the knowledge and practice of the truth as it is in Jesus; and Christian temperance lies in acting on what you know about drink, as God would have you to act. However excellent and temperate you may be, it is not your duty to drink. There is no command from the heaven above, or from the earth beneath, compelling you to taste. Health does not ask it, happiness does not require it. Duty makes no demand on it. True, lusts like it; wicked men force it on you; the customs of society urge it but you are not bound to obey. You need not attend those meetings over which Satan unseen presides; where drink levels all distinctions,-is the climax of pleasure, and obliterates moral feeling. There is no obdurate necessity tugging you into a

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tavern, chaining you down in a tap-room, pouring into your system liquid fire. You may forswear drink for ever, and do nobody any wrong.

Your respect for yourself, for truth, for the Lord, will make you go farther. Drink has done ruinous work on the bodies and souls of men-of men distinguished in Church and State, in commerce and in literature. Use it, and you too may fall. Like the millions whom it has devoured in the past, it may accomplish your ruin. It can fascinate; it works by the invincible power of habit. You may yet wear its chain. While you are free, continue so; your interests, your happiness, your prospects in eternity, demand that, with stubborn resolution, you repel the advances of drink.

If it be good for you, on moral grounds, to practise temperance according to the Christian standard, it must be good for others. If you are a minister, all that you know, as well as all that you have seen of the horrors of intemperance, calls on you to arise and work in this department of moral reform. Amid a tippling population, what special probability is there of success for the gospel which you bring? If you are a father, you are concerned for the safety of sons, for the happiness of daughters. How could you bear to see them the victims of drink, or of drunken fury? You take an interest in education, in the welfare of the country, in the progress of moral reform, in the maintenance of virtue, in the training of the young. The barrier that everywhere and in everything op. poses you is drink. It impedes your progress; it drags its victims before your eyes to repairless ruin.

Be doing then. Speak to your friend; plead with the young; command the drunkard to abstain; strengthen the hands of those who incessantly labour in the good cause. Put down drinking customs; show, in all the relations of life, the moral dignity of self-denial in drink. Demonstrate, in your own person, that sobriety is a cause of, as well as an essential element in, happiness. Remember that, like food undigested, the information you possess about drink, if it is not persistently acted on by you in your daily life, will become poison.

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NONE seem so unsettled as the habitually phlegmatic when excited. Like calm, deep waters ruffled to their very depths, Mr. Letstieg's naturally quiet manner was unusually disturbed. Twice turning round to Mr. Blackham, who could not keep pace with him, he said at every corner, "Are we near it now ?" Still on they went, through lanes and courts which we described before. Poverty and vice were stamped upon these places. They seemed the nearest possible resemblance of what one can conceive of hell. The very air was full of curses; even children's tongues swelled the babel of hellish jargon.

Had Mr. Letstieg been passing through Paradise he would have had no ear for sweetest sound, nor eye for nature's most gorgeous covering, so occupied was he with the tumultuous feelings which now filled his heart.

"Mr. Blackham, pardon me, you seem very wearied; how thoughtless of me, we should have driven," said Mr. Letstieg, now noticing for the first time the utter lassitude of his companion.

"We are at it now; we will be there in a few minutes, and I can rest before we return."

"At it now! God grant that I be not disappointed in this hope! I cannot tell you why, but I feel as if I were about to get tidings of our lost child. For the last two months we have spoken more of him than during the twelve years of his loss."

"Here," said Mr. Blackham, standing at the entrance of a paved gateway, "here's the place." They met a woman and two children coming out of the house.

"How is the old woman this evening ?"

In an unmistakable Milesian accent, she replied"Plase yer ravarance, she's got worse after you left last night; and instead of the purty hymn yer ravarance was taching her, she cursed and barged like a throoper."

Even Mr. Letstieg forgot his anxiety for a moment, to look round at the man who spent last night in such a place. No wonder his features were pale. "Did you see her this morning?"

"No, yer ravarance, I just went up thare now, but the door was closed, and she seems quiet, so I did not like to disturb her. I wish she had slept last night; for a sorra wink of sleep Mick got with her roarin', and he havin' to go away by daylight to his work."

They went up and knocked at the door; knocked again, no answer; again, no reply.

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Quick, get a policeman, and we'll burst the door." Perhaps she is only asleep; knock louder." And with a knock loud enough to waken the dead, Mr. Letstieg thundered at the door.

At length a policeman was called, and, being told all the circumstances, without any ceremony put his shoulder to the door and burst it open.

Gipsy Moll, as she was called, was dead, and lay with her face upturned to the ceiling-a ghastly face it was, distorted in death agonies by remorse.

Mr. Letstieg looked as if he would have given worlds to wring the secret from those dead lips; turning round to the Irishwoman, who, with her children, followed them up the stairs, he asked, "Do you know anything of the little boy that lived with her ?"

"Plase yer honour, he went away about four months ago, and we have not seen him since. She thought grate long for him; she often said she had a fortune in that child whenever she wished to claim it."

"Then he wasn't her child."

"No, bless yer honour; when his face was cleaned a nater bit of a lad you wouldn't find in a day's walk. Mick often said there was something of the gintleman about him."

"Have you any idea of where or how we could see him ?"

"Faix I wish I did, and I could earn some money very handy; a gintleman was here some months ago, and offered the old woman five pouns if she would tell where to find him. Some papers or other he stole,"

"See, make him out,-detain him if he comes here; get any information for me about him, and I'll reward you well." Mr. Letstieg's quiet manner forsook him completely, he was quite unnerved.

The policeman searched every nook and corner of the room, and emptied on the floor the contents of an old trunk, which had not been disturbed for many years, but no clue was found-nothing to feed the hope which had been kindled in his breast.

After giving a pound to bury the old woman, he went away, whispering to Mr. Blackham,

"I thank God my poor wife knows nothing of this; still I'm inclined to follow it up, and I'll speak to Gilby when we return."

"It might be well to do so; but, to save yourself,

ROUGH WATERS.

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In a wretched room, "plying her needle and thread," sat a young woman, busily employed at a white muslin gown-not so white as her fair hands and face. In a corner, in a straw chair, sat an old man, her father, nodding, and closing and opening his eyes as if this were the sole purpose for which he had been created. The pale cheeks became crimson when Miss Banks saw the gentlemen enter; there was something so graceful and lady-like in the manner with which she put aside the work she was engaged at, that Mr. Letstieg, who was naturally very much taken up with his own thoughts, was struck by it.

"I am sorry, Miss Banks, that you were not able to come to our meeting last night; I was afraid your father or yourself were not very well."

"Thank you, it is very kind of you to call; I was too ill to go."

"I am glad you're better. I will not read with your father to-day, as I expect to be over again at the end of the week."

"That," said Mr. Blackham, after they left, "is another of the thousand instances of the fatal effects of intemperance I meet with. For several years I was rather opposed to total abstinence, but since I came to London I have seen enough to make a dark head grey."

"Indeed I believe it would be impossible to exaggerate the sad effects of intemperance. I wish that more of your brethren would look upon it from your point of view."

"What a history might be written from the reverses of that stupid old man; he was once an opulent merchant in this city, and, step by step, he was so dragged down in circumstances and in mind by the implacable demon of drink, that, on the very brink of idiotcy, he would have become the inmate of a workhouse but for the noble efforts of that peerless daughter. She gets work from some of the monster houses, and is often obliged to remain up half the night to earn enough to support her father. Twice she has been ill from over exertion, and I believe if he lives long she will soon be in her grave."

"What misery there is in the world! My friend, do me a kindness-take this five pound note, and, in whatever way your own delicacy suggests, urge it on their acceptance."

"Very many thanks; I have funds at my disposal, and I have spoken to Mr. Bright, the manager of the house of business for which she works, to give her, as if from themselves, an increased price for her work; this was the only way I could act without of fending."

"Well, take this sum, you will find plenty of use for it in such a parish as this."

Mr. Gilby was anxiously waiting their arrival, and was scarcely disappointed to hear that their mission was a failure; however, he promised to see Mr. Catchwell in the morning, and asked Mr. Letstieg to come over about twelve o'clock, saying

"If any detective in Europe can ferret the matter out, believe me, it is Catchwell."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

151

"WOULD'NT be a bit surprised, sir, this same youngster you want me to search for was the same as stole your papers and ran away; at any rate, the lad you got from the ragged-school lived with that old woman."

"What! Catchwell, can it be that they are the same." "Edward," turning to Mr. Letstieg, "that boy's face haunted me several times when passing through the office door; it would set me a thinking, where did I see it before. The face of that boy, Jack (for we never gave him any other name), resembles yours -What! tut, man, bear the news better. With God's help your child will be restored to you. Take my advice and tell Louisa the hope you have, and Catchwell and I will see about the necessary steps to be taken. Young Singleton will be here in an hour; of his own accord, he has volunteered a clear confession about the stolen papers."

Richard Singleton confessed all; told how Hathaway induced Jack to steal the title deeds, and how he himself went to Wriggle's to sell them. Mr. Gilby heard all patiently unto the end, and then closed the huge ledger which lay opened before him.

"Go and tell," he said, "Mr. Jones, my solicitor, that I want to see him for a few moments; or, stop a moment, I'll write a note."

The note was written, and as Mr. Jones lived only two doors above Mr. Gilby's, he was with him in a few minutes.

At the close of the consultation, Mr. Gilby said, with more vehemence than he had ever been known to exhibit,

"Justice won't be blind this time, in the case of that scoundrel; next to the finding of the child, I would like to see him punished for his iniquity." By "that scoundrel," he meant Mr. Wriggle, gentleman attorney.

Mr. Catchwell set out at once on his voyage of discovery, promising, before twenty-four hours, to have some information for his employer.

That evening Mrs. Letstieg went to the Singleton's; what a change! They all looked happy, even Henry, who, but a few weeks ago seemed like one marked out for the grave, was reading aloud for his mother, while she and Adelaide were sewing.

Just as Mrs. Letstieg was driving to the door, Henry was reading an advertisement from the Times offering £500 reward to any one who could give information about a child stolen twelve years ago from its parents. No particulars were given, and it concluded with "Any persons wishing to engage in the search may apply at Mr. Gilby's, 21, street."

"We must ask Richard, when he comes home, if he heard what child this is," said Mrs. Singleton, while Adelaide, throwing aside her work, ran to open the door for Mrs. Letstieg.

Like an angel she was received by the Singletons. When she had disencumbered herself of her cloak and bonnet, Adaleide could not help exclaiming— "Mrs. Letstieg, I hope you did not fatigue yourself coming; you look wearied ?"

"Adelaide, dear, I can scarcely control myself; tears will come," and she sat down on the sofa, covering her face with her hands. After a moment she looked up-"Oh, God! do not deceive the hope that has risen within my breast, to see my child again; to press it to my heart," and in silent prayer she clasped her hands.

The Singletons were told the whole history; and as Mrs. Letstieg told them more than the reader yet knows, we will give the account in her own words

My husband suspects that Mr. Wriggle had something to do with the abduction of the child. Mr. Wriggle was my father's clerk; and in five years

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after the death of my father, my mother married him, to the surprise of every one. I was then a young girl at school, and had the greatest horror of my step-father; so great did this become, that it was arranged I should spend my vacations with a relative. My mother had been married ten years when she died, and, to the utter astonishment of all her friends, left the money she had in her own right, except five hundred a-year, to Mr. Wriggle. The five hundred a-year was settled on me; and, in case I had no children, it reverted to Mr. Wriggle. My mother's relations disputed the will, which they suspected had been forged; but for want of sufficient evidence they failed. My husband took an active share in the law. suit; hence Mr. Wriggle, in the event of our child being removed, could gratify his avarice and his revenge. God forgive him for the sorrow he has caused me!"

After poor tried Mrs. Letstieg left, the Singletons joined in prayer and asked the God of all comfort to comfort her who had been their deliverer in such bitter trials.

"Oh! mother," said Adelaide, "what a cup of sorrow she has had to drain, yet how calm and angellike she looked when we were in affliction-hiding

Deep, deep within the hold,
Now in decay, and old,

Salt waves are sleeping in pools dark and still;
Stars show their faces there,

Beaming through midnight air, Casting down bright rays those mirrors to fill.

Many a winter storm,

Many a summer warm,

Riding the billow that proud ship has moved; Loud was the sailor's song,

Borne by the breeze along; Light were those hearts that so merrily roved.

Still now it seems to me, Wafted across the sea; Note after note ringing out on the air; Sound of those bygone years, Shadowed in thought appears,

Far off and distantly greeting me here.

her own sorrows to lighten ours-what lessons she Health: How to Secure and Retain it.

has taught me !"

When Richard returned (that night he was later than usual) his sister told him the history of Mrs. Letstieg's trials, and that Mr. Gilby said a boy he had named Jack, whom he took from a ragged-school, must be her child.

"Jack, Mrs. Letstieg's child. Jack! that I have been making inquiries for this whole evening, to repay him for the faithfulness with which he clung to me in trouble."

"Another proof he is her child."

"I'll search him out and pay a tithe of the devotion which my heart will ever feel for our deliverer. Mother, you need not fear to trust me now on the streets of London. I must go this night and inquire further about him. Don't remain up; I'll be back about two. Let us read our chapter and pray before I go."

(To be continued.)

The Old Wreck.

By E. L. WYNNE, Dublin. BRIGHTLY the evening sun Glows when the day is done; Twilight's dim shades are insensibly nigh; Down on the wild sea-shore I love to watch the hour

Calling the light to her home in the sky.

Far o'er the summer sea
Soft breezes come to me,
Rippling the waters along their cool way,
Whitening each tiny wave,
Hasting my feet to lave,
Ere I depart with the fast closing day.

Moored to a sunken rock,
Safe from the tempest's shock,
Years it has rested from journeys afar;
Yon crumbling vessel wreck,

Moss creeping o'er its deck,

Filled with the remnants of masthead and spar.

By S. B. LOUDON, Liverpool.

SECTION 3.-DRINK.

HAVING disposed of the subject of "Food," its twin sister, "Drink," next engages our attention. Fluids are more essential to life than solids. Every one knows how much more intense thirst is than hunger. A man would live much longer without food than without drink. There is no passion or appetite of our nature to be, for a moment, compared with thirst as to intensity. The necessity for supplying the body with a proper quantity of fluid, and of a pure and healthy kind, is very great. It has been computed that only about one-fourth of the human body is composed of solid flesh, bone, and muscle. This vast amount of fluid is continually escaping by the pores of the body, and various other outlets, so that it requires to be replenished daily. By what this should be replenished, in addition to the supply obtained from vegetables, fruits, &c., and what particular drinks should be taken in health and disease, are the questions now properly before us.

The readers of the Irish League Journal will hardly expect me to recommend, for a universal drink, any. thing but pure cold water. Apart altogether from my teetotal predilections, I am most firmly convinced not only that perfect health is compatible with the use of water, but that water is perfectly essential to health. Can we doubt that our Almighty Father provided man, originally, with the drink most suitable for him; and will any one venture to maintain that what was most suitable for our first parents, is a bad thing for their descendants? For my own part, I am willing to take what God has supplied me with, assured that since He, who is "the only wise God," has given it, it must be the best, both physically and otherwise. Water-" blessed water"-it has been well called-is good in health: it is equally good in illness. It will subdue fever, and renovate the system sooner and far more effectually, than anything else known to medical science. But we are continually told that wine, bitter ale, and other alcoholic stimulants, are necessary as tonics. If, by a tonic is meant something that will enable one to eat more food, I admit that drinking ale, in what is called "moderation," will produce this effect; but if

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