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THE SHADOW OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S.

Do you caution him against the public-house, sinful companions? and, above all, knowing his propensity, do you caution him against the first glass? To neglect this would be to neglect a duty, to do this is what total abstainers aim at. We go a little further, and urge temperate people to become total abstainers for the sake of their weak brethren, and surely this is not asking much from those who profess to follow Christ, who is our example in all things.

There is much to encourage us; many ministers of all denominations have joined our ranks. Many, although not total abstainers, wish us Godspeed, and help our work by their presence at meetings, and by subscriptions. Our principles have found their way among what is termed the higher classes, yet, notwithstanding this, our cause is not flourishing as it ought. In England nearly 500 clergymen of the Established Church form a proud break-water against the national degradation, and are striving to wrest from lazy In legislators, some protection for the poor man. Scotland, after much self-denying labour, the Temperance League have gained their righteous demands; and on the first day of the week publichouses are closed, and their traffic limited during the other days of the week. While they reckon their yearly income by thousands of pounds, they have men of sterling worth to uphold their cause. Still we are hopeful, for our quarrel is a just one, and we will cling to our honest convictions, and, with candour, avow them. The earnest faithful advocacy of this cause, brings with it one comfort at least the comfort that we are unselfishly doing our duty to our fellow-men. Let me close this article with the following anecdote. May the arrow hit the mark!

He was

"Christmas Evans, the famous Welsh preacher, towards the end of his days laboured to advance the temperance reformation. A brother minister who 'condemned not himself in the things which he allowed,' could not be brought over to the total abstinence system. Evans polished an arrow and put it into his quiver ready for use. appointed to preach, and as usual there were gatherings from far and near to hear him. Mr. W, of A, the minister alluded to, was there also; but as if in anticipation of an attack, he at first said he would not be present whilst Evans preached; yet such was the fascination that he could not stop away. By and by he crept up into the gallery, where the preacher's eye-for he had but one-which had been long searching for him, at length discovered him. All went on as usual, until the time came when the arrow might be drawn, which was done slyly and unperceived. 'I had a strange dream the other night,' said the preacher, I dreamed I was in Pandemonium, the council chamber of Hades. How I got there I know not, but there I was. had not been there long before there came a thundering rap at the gates, " Beelzebub, Beelzebub, you must come to earth directly." "Why what's the matter, now?" "Oh! they are sending out missionaries to preach to the heathen." they? bad news this; I'll be there presently." 'Beelzebub came, and hastened to the place of embarkation, where he saw the missionaries, their wives, and a few boxes of Bibles and tracts; but, on turning round, he saw rows of casks, piled up

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and labelled gin, rum, brandy, &c.' "That will do," said he, "no fear yet. These casks will do more harm than the boxes can do good." So saying, he stretched his wings for hell again. After a time came another loud call," Beelzebub, they are forming Bible Societies." Are they? then I must go." He went, and found two ladies going from house to house, distributing the Word of God. "This won't do," thought he; "but I'll watch the result." The ladies visited an aged female, who received the Bible with much reverence and many thanks. Satan loitered about, and when the ladies were gone, saw the old woman come to her door and look around to assure herself that she was unobserved. She then put on her bonnet, and with a small parcel under her apron hastened to the next public-house, where she pawned her new Bible for a bottle of gin. "That will do," said Beelzebub, no fear yet," and back he flew to his own place. Again came a loud knock and a hasty summons: "They are forming temperance societies. Temperance societies! What's that? I'll come and see." He came and saw, and again came back muttering "This won't do much har to me or my subjects. They are forbidding the | use of ardent spirits, but they have left my poor people all the ale and porter, and the rich all the wines; no fear yet." Again came a loader rap, and a more urgent call: Beelzebub, you must come now, or all is lost. They are forming teetotal societies." "Teetotal! What in the name of all

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my imps is that?" "To drink no intoxicating drinks whatever. The sole beverage is water." Indeed! That is bad news. I must see after this." And he did, but went back again to satisfy the anxious inquiries of his legions, who were all qui vive about the matter. "Oh," said he, "don't be alarmed. True, it is an awkward affair; but it won't spread much yet, for all the parsons are against it, and Mr. W of A- (sending up

an eagle glance of his eye at him) is at the head of them." "But I won't be at the head of them any longer," cried out Mr. W; and walking calmly down out of the gallery entered the tablepew and signed the pledge."

The Shadow of St. Sepulchre's.

A LONDON STORY.

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back again. No wonder he is afraid to come just now; but be patient just a few days. He is away more in search of adventure than in fear of justice. Do not fret so, mother."

But mothers cannot be argued into comfort when their deep instincts tell them that a very dark cloud is gathering. Nay, while the storm brews they are in tenfold grief, thinking of all the possibilities of sorrow, but when it bursts the very climax of real calamity seems not so bad as its doubtful anticipation. David is comforted when Bethsheba's infant dies, but not sooner.

Mrs. Neville, nursing in her heart the recent sorrow of her husband's tragic death, was illprepared to meet this second blow-her son's

THE SHADOW OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S.

felonious escape from his employer. But every thought of his guilt was swallowed up in the one dark sea of her anguish at his loss. She would have rather seen him stand and plead before the county magistrates, however bad his case, than think of all that might possibly have happened to him in the many contingencies of misfortune so rife in this world, so doubly rife in the imagination of a mother's heart.

It was nine o'clock in the morning, only a few days after the escape of Matt and Jem from Easton workhouse. Mary Neville, the same bright, intelligent, and fair girl, who had been, in a sort of romantic way, from an early age, Jemmy's pride, stood looking to see the water boil for her mother's and sisters' breakfast. Mrs. Neville was standing at the window in that excitement of anticipation which so often fills us when we see the slow postman gradually coming up the street, and seeming interminably to delay chatting with servants at sundry doors opposite. Not the rapid double knock of your city official, not the short, impatient clang of the bell if there be no letter-box, and the dawdling servant seems to forget that there is a red-coat 'on her Majesty's service" at the door. No, the village post-man is one of the most provoking of men;-but I must not imitate him by keeping the letter from Mrs. Neville, for a letter there is, and she does not know the hand.

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MADAM,-A young scoundrel who picked my pocket at Richmond, was collared by me near the Great Northern station, London, the day before yesterday, and is now, I am glad to say, safe in the Old Baile. It I am not greatly mistaken, he was walking with that fine boy of yours whom I have often seen in the Board-room at Easton. What has happened? Is he gone from you? I saw the face but a moment, but felt I could scarcely be mistaken. He slipped off, and I could not leave my prey to follow him. God knows where he is now; but I should say he is to be found in London. Can I be of any help in searching for him? I shall not return for a week till this young blackguard is convicted.— Madam, yours respectfully,

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JAMES E. BOWRIGHT."

"My son, my son! then it was all true about his going off with one of the worst of the paupers. But he is escaped. He is not in gaol. Oh, James, James!" cried the widow, while the intelligence of his personal safety compensated for the blow which the announcement of his being found in company with a thief, would naturally bave struck.

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We must do something at once about him. I will go up to London, girls. I must go; who else will search for him as I shall do? Who else would know him if they met him in the street? My poor bad boy! my fine James."

"Mamma dear, you cannot do such a thing. You would be lost yourself, and how could you ever find him? Do you know what a place that London is?" asked Jane, the second daughter, anxiously; and little Margaret chimed in, "I'll go. I'll catch Jem easily; he'd run after me, I'm sure, if he saw me three fields off."

"But what would you do in the streets, Maggy?" said Jane; "poor little thing, I am sure you would go after James if you were allowed."

"Stop girls. I must think. O what can we

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poor women do, we are so helpless when there's anything really hard to be done."

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Mamma, don't be angry," Mary gently said, "but do you not think the best thing to do would be to tell what we know to Mr. Evans at once, and try to pacify him, and get him to let James off if he is found; then I am sure he would let one of the porters, Frank, or Tully, go to London, and they are as good as detectives, and we could pay all the expenses. I am sure this would be the best plan.

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Mary, I know Mr. Evans is determined to prosecute Jem if he is brought back again. Most likely it is the knowledge of the master's character that keeps Jem from even writing one line to say how he is, or why he don't come back home. O James, James, you have cost your poor father and me many a pang, with all your beauty and intelligence!"

After much discussion, the conclusion which Mary and her mother determined to act upon was this-they would try to find out what Evans, the master, intended to do about James, and if they could conciliate him, they would then tell the rest; but if not they must get some one who knew the lad to go up to London, and try to trace him out.

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"Send Tully? Why not? I'll forgive him for your sake, Miss Mary. Ah, your mother was as clever a woman as the most cunning of her sex to send you here to soften my heart-and it's a bit too soft already."

"Well, Mr. Evans, tell me what to say to mamma, and when can Tully go?"

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Tell your mother for your sake I'd do more than that, and let her know what it is that made me forgive James Neville. Tully can go to-morrow if you like; so I will take your hand, Mary."

But Mary shook him off, and ran down the steps and back across the yellow fields in the early autumn morn. In her heart she knew that Wm. Evans, the rough, but good-natured new master, would give his right hand to be able to ask one question of her and her mother with a reasonable hope of success; but, as yet, Mary's heart was free enough, and though no one could deny that she might do worse than become Mrs. William Evans, and matron (as her mother had been before her) of Easton workhouse, yet she was able, without a sigh, to dismiss the thoughts of such a position, and with a true woman's self-forgetfulness, to turn her mind from romantic castlebuilding about her own future, to fix it with a steady purpose on the great family interest of the hour what could be done to win her mother's only son back again?

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THE SHADOW OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S.

CHAPTER VII.

Ugh! a blast on that confounded hog of a turnkey that strapped my wrists so tight! Ugh! this is more than I bargained for. Ho, there, is that James Neville; what the devil brought you here? are we friends still? Ugh! I'm choking with blood. Cut that dom strop, and let me be off."

I need not picture Jem's astonishment at seeing his chum. But his words of greeting were cool

enough:

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Bravo, Matt! we're friends; who'd have thought I'd have met you in such a way. But, lad, you're half-killed; what shall I do with you? But there was now no more blessing or cursing" out of the lips of Matt.

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There had come enough, however, fully to identify him, and for better for worse, Jem and he were together again. This time Jem's wit must come to the rescue. Alarming thoughts of sentinels, or at least police, were making him already very uneasy as to what he should do with the bruised and bleeding body in its unconsciousness. The last thought that would have crossed Jem's mind, was to run off and let Matt's business take care of itself. Perhaps that was the best thing he could have done; but it was not to be. There lay, helpless as a log, the escaped prisoner. There, helpless as a child, knelt over him his friend. Carry him? Impossible. Drag him? It would kill him. Let him bleed? He would bleed to death in an hour. He thought a minute, and as he thought, he heard again the dismal booming clock of St. Sepulchre's. Three. The sound, added to an effort of Jem's to cut with his old knife, the leathern strap on Matt's wrist, aroused the latter to consciousness. The semiawakened ears were acute enough to catch the sounds of footsteps in the still Sunday morning, and Matt recovered his strength; he made a spring, and reeled off into a run, shuffling painfully in the agony of his bruises, but proving, by his gait, that no bones were actually broken, into Skinner's Street, up Snow Hill, round a corner, with Jem after him, when he fell again with a "flop" on the pavement.

It was all dark there. This time Matt was not stunned, only exhausted. With his freed hands he tore off the prison jacket. His own vest was underneath. The ready fingers had made a couple of bandages in a minute, which Jem applied where blood flowed. Matt tossed the last witness of his short gaol sojourn into an area, and, sitting upon a door-step nursing his foot, growled out to Jem

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“All alive and kicking. But, bless you, young 'un, where's all your fine clothes cut to, them amazin' buttons, that swell thotch, them powerful Bluchers. Why, ye're more like a crossin' sweeper nor a gent now.'

"O, old boy. I've been seeing life, and I'm not afraid of my two tumblers hot when I can get it. I've come on rightly since you and I parted, only I'm amazingly low sometimes for a bit of food."

"O cheer up, lad. I'll teach ye what loife is, lookee, if ye'll trust to me. I never see such a lucky 'un as I be this blessed noite; and to think, now, I've spent ten days in that blackguard Newgate, and I cussin' and fussin' now about a bit of a sprain. Why, whose thankfuller nor I this

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Stay, now. I'll have you able to choose your own breakfast to-morrow, or the day after, at furthest. Get in there, into that black corner. I'm blowed if 'ere aint a swell a comin--hist" "O, Matt, I'll never have anything to say to"Hush, you young devil.”

In an instant there was a scuffle. Matt's hand, too apt in such a street encounter to have lost anything of its aim or force from his recent holiday, struck the swell on the mouth and nose, and while the fire flashed from his eyes and the blood spurted from his nostrils, Matt had seized his watch, which he slipped into his mouth in a second, and giving the owner another cuff, to make sure of his confusion, caught Jem and slipped up a side street with agility.

"I declare I'll have nothing to say to that sort of work. You and I'll part if you don't go and give back that watch," cried the last effort of principle in Jem.

'Where'll you get your mornin' swipes then," sneered his tutor in the ways of the devil.

Was it come to this-starve or steal! Was the noble-hearted boy of old to join hands with an escaped prisoner, and share stolen goods, got in such a way, and by such expert fingers!

Reader, do you not fear for James? You may fear, for he has fallen. He is down. Morally, the son of old honest Neville, of Easton, bites the dust. He goes serpent-like on the earth, despising father's pride, and mother's prayer, and sisters' sweet looks. He has learned to drink, he has learned to curse, he has learned to steal. God help him, and keep him from the further downward course, for there lies still another precept frowning him back-" Thou shalt do no murder."

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The George" Inn, close by Newgate, was a favorite resort of all the blackguards who haunt the neighbourhood of the Old Bailey. It stands near the Shadow of St. Sepulchre's, and many a yell of drunken frolic is echoed by its walls, and many a reeking cloud from steaming punch, and stale tobacco, pours forth from its ever-swinging doors, to greet and welcome such as love these odours-to sicken and disgust those who love fresh air.

This, with reckless defiance, was the tavern chosen by Matt and the fallen hero of our narrative to celebrate, that Sunday afternoon, the successful act of the preceding night. The broiling day was declining-the streets had a desolate look -loungers hung about the corners and yawned for want of something to do. There was no whistling, nor song-singing; there never is on sultry summer afternoons; but in the tap-room of the "George a number of choice spirits were regaling themselves, and conversation, at first lively enough, soon became dull and monotonous.

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A fine specimen of the Celt was of the number. He had lived long enough in London to have grown used to gin as a substitute for his native poteen, and while he drank with the merriest his heavy wit and rich brogue formed a good source of amusement to his companions.

"Arrah, be the powers, that's a darlint tap

THE SHADOW OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S.

that's a swate sup intirely. Be the howly it's meself's takin' me aise here the day. Shure wasn't that a job over the way beyant last night. I'm tould a young villain tuk his lave o' that frownin' ould prison in rare style. There wasn't a crayter mindin'; and he locked in as secure as the ould chaps widin could make him; and if me darlin' didn't cut intirely I'm not Micky Healy, so I'm not."

"Cut? Who'se goin' to b'lieve a chap ever slipped that place. Come, now, Micky, I'll stand another glass all round if that been't a whopping lie."

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Who'se callin' Mick Healy a liar? Who'se callin' the son of as raal an Irishman, born and bred, as ever stud trate in Dublin, a liar? Come, I'll tache ye to call me a liar. Hurroo-hurroo!"

And thick as rain fell Mick's iron fists on his opponent's skull, face, shoulders, and body. The besotted Londoner was no match for one who could hold many a glass more, for many a "dandy" of whisky had Micky strengthened himself with ere this in the fair-greens of his fatherland, and come out of the fray more lively and rolicking than he went into it.

“Hurroo—hurroo! Come on again, ye villain ye, and I'll be the death of ye. O be the howly!"

There was one blow too much. Jem stood trembling, even half overcome as he was that evening with the drink, trembling to see what drink was doing. He saw that one blow too much falling, and he saw the disfigured insulter of the savage Irishman fall in the midst of the crowd-was he dead? It was a frightful piece of work any way; for, of those forty drinkers, thirty-nine had fled in one half-minute, running or staggering off in various directions, as the tramp of the police were heard round the corner.

Jem was young and sprightly, not very far gone, and fully alive to the peril of being caught in a company who had managed amongst them to slay a man! He was off, and knew not whither he went, until he stopped breathlessly in the Strand, with the dark arch of old Temple Bar frowning above his head. Then he moderated his walk. He had come into a more respectable locality. He must not run. He wandered down a bye street and sat on a grave stone in the narrow yard of the Temple. No one could find him here, and there was no thoroughfare.

Jem began to think. His brain was cooling a little. He thought of his position. He sat on a grave as I said. Jem's eyes fell on two words carved on the stone, "Oliver Goldsmith."

The

The youth had been fond of poetry in better days, and he had learned something of the history of the genial, unprincipled, careless son of Erin, whose remains were entombed below him. thought awaked a resolution within him to try to be better. It is not often that a course of recklessness is run so rapidly, and comes to a climax so soon as that of Jem. The tangible fact glared him in the face that he had just been one of a company who had slain, or nearly slain, a man. What had brought him there? The love of drink, new-born in him, but old in them. What had led to that crime? The love of drink. What had not that fearful drink to answer for? He might, perhaps, be a witness, ere long, of an execution at Newgate-the execution of a man who,

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in his company, had slain another. So Jem reasoned, his heated mind running on over foregrounds of possibilities, and resting on the sad picture beyond, he could not feel altogether innocent of that man's death-if indeed he were dead. What of Matt? I will do Jem the justice to say that in his heart he prayed God that hour that he might never see Matt again.

He arose from his seat on poor, foolish, witty Goldsmith's tomb, and threaded his way between towering, overhanging houses, passing parallel to the noisy Strand, until he emerged into the thoroughfare by Charing-cross, and sauntered aimlessly down by Whitehall. This was a comparatively new region to Jemmy Neville. He had seen London life mostly in the city. It was not long before he stood before Westminster Abbey. In Poets' Corner he looked up the high, black, smokestained walls of the matchless pile. The air was still sultry. The sun was hidden by a pall of reddish mist;-the walls gave out a glow, having been heated intensely all the day by the sun-glare.

Oh, the beauty of all that tracery of door and fretted window! Oh, the loveliness of those fluted Gothic shafts-those Houses of Parliament -that Victoria Tower-those walls and roofs connecting the present busy age of commerce and science with the far-off days of the Tudors, with the warlike times of the Plantagenets. Jem was filled with positive delight in all he saw. On him, as on many before him, the exquisite simplicity of the cathedral that shot up into the sky beside him exercised a purifying influence. A silent sermon in stones was being preached into his listening heart; and when across the house-tops a peal of bells went forth from old Westminster, now clashing all in one confusion, then singly sounding in sweet harmony one after another, then mixing in twos and threes, and making a semi-discord that burst into full melody again, he was rapt into a heaven of better thoughts, and unable to resist the good influence that chance seemed to have brought to bear on him, he sauntered into the cool cathedral, and reverentially took off his cap as he went in.

A crowd was collecting. It was one of those "special services" in that old pile which have been of such inestimable benefit to hundreds. Jemmy was to be one of those thus benefited.

"The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost;" such was the text, and poor Jem's heart was full just now with softer influences. He was lost-he felt it. He had thrown himself away in that mad frolic in London. He had ruined himself. He could not go home again, that was both physically and morally impossible. He could not pay his fare; he dare not meet his master; he had made himself an outcast, and now what was to be done? Should he write home? He write home, shame and fear, and pride, all said-No! He had never loved home. Home would not receive him now. It was so far off too. He felt like a stranger in a distant land. Then what would be the effect of writing home? He would relieve anxiety, but that was all. If he returned he could at best return to drudgery again, and he had set his heart on being a Londoner, in shame or in honest toil.

Then his ears listened again, and he heard noble words of invitation-" Come unto me and I

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POETRY.-A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF FATHER MATHEW.

will give you rest," and the preacher told of one who was poor, despised, and tempted; but who had, withal, lived a holy, blameless life, shunning all ways of evil, and choosing sorrow rather than sin.

"I have had," thought the youth, "even in these few weeks, both sin and sorrow, and yet, perhaps, I was not so much to blame." And I am sorry to say, like Eve of old, Jem began to think that all the blame lay upon Matt's shoulders, and the sermon made half the impression that it might have done but for that thought. Jem was not safe yet, but something had been done.

As he left the building, and the sounds of the closing voluntary swept the aisles, and lingered in his ears, Jem was sorry to get out into the night, for he was homeless, and knew not what to do.

He turned to St. James's Park, and curling himself up beneath an old elm tree, he fell asleep. (To be continued.)

The Old House by the Sea.

THE foam of the wave is breaking,

On that dreary, lonely shore,
And the sea-birds' note shrieks wildly,
As above the cliffs they soar.

Upwards! high into the heavens,

Till their noisy voices die;

And the desolate sands, with their billows,
In the cheerful sunlight lie.

And a house, with its shattered casements,
And chimneys tall and twined,
Stands forth with its pointed gables,
In the blast of the wild sea wind.

No curling smoke has arisen

This many a long, long day,

From that ancient home in the twilight,
As the children came from play.

And, instead of the childish footsteps,
That rang o'er the echoing shore,
The sad monotonous sea moan
Is sounding for evermore.

It waileth in through each lattice,
When the days are sunny and bright,
And mournfully chanteth its dirges,
Through the long, cold winter night.
That house, forsaken, remaineth

Beside the wide sea strand;
But they, who dwelt 'neath its shadow,
Are gone to a distant land.

As the sunbeams sink in the waters,
In a cloud of crimson rolled,
The house has a wondrous splendour
Again, as in days of old.

But the lonely midnight moonlight,
With its silent beauty brings

A dream of departed visions,
Till the past are present things.

And now by the salt sea billows
It all deserted stands,

With the glorious skies above it,
And the murmur on the sands!

ETA.

3 Chapter from the Life of Father Mathew.*

FATHER MATHEW had been for some years one of the governors of the House of Industry—the Cork workhouse of those days-in which the poor waifs and strays of society, the wretched and the brokendown, the victims of their own folly, or of the calamities, accidents, and vicissitudes of life, found a miserable home. He felt deep sympathy with such outcasts, and possessed the key to unlock closer breasts than theirs, and many a tale of folly and sin was breathed there into his ear. Here he found the results, in all their sad horror, of the destructive vice of intemperance. In the hospitals, jails, lunatic asylums, as in the haunts of infamy, he witnessed other phases of the same terrible infatuation.

On the Board of Governors, with Father Mathew, was one who, himself a convert to the cause of total abstinence, never failed to direct his attention to any case more remarkable in its distressing features than others, with the observation -"Strong drink is the cause of this." having excited the sympathies of his hearers, he would add, “Oh, Theobald Mathew, if thou would only give thy aid, much good might be done in this city!"

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This advocate was William Martin, a Quaker, and one of the three earliest laborers in the then un-worked field. Nicholas Dunscombe, Richard Dowden, and William Martin-Protestant clergyman, Unitarian barrister, and Quaker merchantthese men had labored for some years, but with little success, in the temperance cause. They had not the ear, and therefore found it impossible to reach the heart of the local community. Oh, Theobald Mathew, if thou would but take the cause in hand!" was the constant appeal of William Martin to the benevolence of the most popular priest of the day. For some time the words seemed to make no impression on that tender heart. But never was a grave proposal more fully and anxiously considered in all its bearings, Seriously did Theobald Mathew ponder and pray in the solitude of his own chamber that he might see what was right, and have grace to do it.

men.

He was now in his 47th year, and possessed a profound and growing experience of his fellowIn every phase of life, and in every rank of society, he had personally witnessed the degrading effects of that one vice. He had seen the happiness of the brightest home wrecked by the weakness of a father, by the folly of a husband, or by the deeper and more terrible misery caused

*Extracted from his Biography. By John F. Maguire, Esq., M.P. London: Longmans. 1863.

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