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A HUSBAND RECLAIMED BY HIS WIFE.

constantly devising means to lessen human misery, are daily found complacently sipping that poison which counteracts all their efforts to do good; which keeps 600,000 of their species in these little islands in a condition of degradation and despair which no words could adequately describe; and which sends prematurely, year by year, thousands to the drunkard's grave. It is this appaling fact which we desire to keep vividly before the minds of all who conceive that it is right in the sight of God and man, for them to indulge moderately, as they call it, in a poison which leads as inevitably and as surely as the day follows night, to such dismal results as these.

The number of liquor dealers in the United Kingdom is very great; it varies from year to year, but ranges probably from 150,000 to 160,000. By a Parliamentary return for the year ending October, 1854, the number was stated to be 163,985, exclusive of distillers and grocers who sell spirits. Of these probably some 17,000 to 20,000 are in Ireland. The latter number was stated some years ago by the Licensed Vintners themselves, on an occasion when they wished to show their strength and political importance.

When we consider the extent of business carried on by many of these parties, and the style and splendor of their establishments, in our cities and large towns, some idea may be formed of the enor mous waste of the national resources on intoxicating liquors. It is clear that our existing poverty might be almost altogether unknown, if this one source of reckless expenditure were dried up. Then, in the name of all that is virtuous and good, let it be dried up. Let us all call on our Legislature to pass Mr. Lawson's and Mr. Bazley's "Permissive Bill," and give the people the privilege of deciding for themselves, in their various sections of the country, whether the liquor traffic shall be continued or abolished by law. Let this traffic be tried on its merits, and a verdict given accordingly. If it be pronounced a good and beneficial traffic for the public, by the voice of the people themselves, let it be sustained; but if it be a common nuisance, place it authoritatively in that category, and let it be prohibited as other public nuisances are.

We do not appeal to our fellow-citizens on this great and momentous question, and ask them to have it decided by a simple majority of votes, nor even on a large majority; we don't want to carry our question unless we have such a great majority as will prove that public opinion is really on our side. If two-thirds of the people are not found willing to vote for suppression of this traffic, let it remain unharmed. Its dangerous nature is attested by the fact, that some four hundred acts have been passed since the reign of Elizabeth, to regulate and keep it within due bounds; but it refuses all regulation. The truth has dawned upon us that in its suppression we can alone find safety. Its results are seen in the crime, and pauperism, and lunacy which abound; and alcohol has not one redeeming quality to compensate for all the mischief it does to the human race. Science condemns it as a poison. Not one of the organs of the body can make a good use of it; it is an irritant to them all; they expel it as quickly as they can. Morality condemns it, for its use causes men and women to set aside all her rules for the wise government of human action. Religion warns us that it is a thing dangerous to tamper with. All that is good on earth and in heaven invites us to put away from us those drinking usages which are so productive of mischief to our race; and for the continuance of which no man can point out a better reason than that it ministers to the indulgence of a sensual appetite.

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A Husband Reclaimed by his Wife.

FROM THE GERMAN.

HERR MUNTER'S wife was certainly a very good creature. It was, indeed, whispered that she had a will of her own, but then that will was always directed to the well-being of those with whom she was connected, and not to her own comfort and pleasure. This good lady (known by the name of the "good woman" in her own circle) was in her youth a bonny, blooming girl, the daughter of a respectable family; her husband was a tradesman in a small town, and one would almost have thought that she might fancy herself too good to weigh out snuff and measure oil day after day. But she didn't think so; whatever was most needful seemed to her to be the most respectable, too; and she bustled about among the herring-tubs and cheese-rennets with the same fresh air and cheerful smile with which she would have presided at a dinner-table had her husband been a minister. But there were very few ministers' wives who had so extensive a field of labor, and so many opportunities of doing good, and showing kindness, as the "good woman" had behind her counter.

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Right glad were the good folk when they saw the kindly and good-looking woman at the counter, for she had a nice present for every little child, and for the old a good word, or a wise piece of advice. counsellor ever had more, or more various human affairs on his mind than she affairs of marriage or of espousals; the sighs of the old and the murmurings of the young; the cares of poverty and the fretfulness of wealth, were in her sympathetic heart fully embraced.

There entered one morning a woman for a small packet of chicory. "I can get coffee no more. My husband is so hard that he does not wish me to have what does me good, for I find that when I am tired coffee does me more good than porridge."

"Well, don't talk so of him, my good woman; all men have some sort of failing, and so has my own. As soon as ever he hears the pestle in the morning, he thinks the house is going to rack and ruin with roasting and baking; he does not mean so very ill. Now you have an industrious husband, and you ought to put up with a little from him.”

"That is true; he is no drunkard, like that Schreider opposite, who drinks schnapps, and his wife coffee, till there is no more of either to be got," said the woman somewhat softened.

Towards evening, the husband of this woman came to get a few ounces of tobacco.

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Won't you take a little coffee, too, neighbor, for the good wife, as to-morrow is Sunday ?" inquired the shop-keeper.

"I cannot be bothered with carrying the coffee myself to her," said he.

"Well, but a cup of coffee now and then is very refreshing, and a change from heavier kinds of food. And your wife does not grudge you your pipe of tobacco."

Ah, that is quite another thing!" said he. "Not entirely; people get satisfied with coffee, but never with tobacco."

"Ah! but I have got to work for the money for the one as well as for the other."

"And again, your wife keeps together what you have earned; that alone is worth the expense of a little coffee. Come, there's a good husband, take your wife a little coffee; she has such hard nights with the children, and a little refreshment makes her kind and obliging enough to go through with anything."

“Ah, you women have a clever way of helping

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A HUSBAND RECLAIMED BY HIS WIFE.

each other; you have succeeded in gaining your point, neighbor!"

The old lady smiled with sincere delight, as on the Sunday morning she saw the couple sitting so happily in the church together. And the bricklayer's wife boasted, long after, how delighted she was in finding her husband bring her the coffee, and how accommodating he was to her ever after.

She had sometimes more serious misunderstandings to reconcile and to cure, with her friendly counsel, her open heart, and her liberal hand. She had acquired a thorough knowledge of human nature. The minister of the town little suspected how much he was indebted to the unassuming woman who seldom left the narrow limits of her house and counter. Yet the counter was not the only sphere of labor of the "good woman." House and children, of which latter there gradually accumulated a goodly progeny, were properly cared for; she was a good mother in their education; and above all, to her husband not only an active helpmate, but always a lovable companion, and one who discovered his ways and adapted herself to them.

Herr Munter, her husband, was at heart as good as she; but he did not at all come up to her in unwearied activity and energy, or in cleverness and decision to do what was necessary, even if she sacrificed her own pleasure.

In the first year of their married life they generally spent the evening together in the shop parlor; and the wife used to tell her husband, who superintended the financial arrangements, of the principal events that had occured to her during the day; and in the mild, pleasant evenings after the shop was shut, they used to take a walk with one another, and compare their accounts together, and thus it happened that they found many little items to set right. They then, with their maid and children, used to retire to family prayers, and lay themselves down to rest in peace.

But at length came the little children, who in the evenings became restless, and she could no longer give herself up so entirely to her husband. He, on his part, found the domestic condition of the house inconvenient; and instead of the one evening a week on which he used to go out and get his glass, he gra dually went out seven times as often; and the mother had to take care to get her children to bed before the father came home, otherwise one or the other of them was sure to find his humour not the very best when he returned.

The good wife saw with anxiety this growing inclination for the bottle. She prepared her husband the dish he liked best for his supper; she taught her children little stories and tricks to entertain themselves with. In vain: the fish was cold and the children sleepy; papa did not come home.

"But, my good man, you will remain at home today, surely? It is our Richard's birth-day," said she, one evening.

"Can not, wife: the host of the 'Bear' is exceedingly aggrieved if I remain away; and you know very well that he gets all his cheese from us."

"Cannot you go to him on Saturday ?"

"That is the day I go to the 'Lamb.' The landlord there will never forgive me, for he is our best customer."

"But will you walk out with us on Sunday ?"

"I would very willingly; but what would the land. lord of the Eagle' say? It would be a pretty thing," indeed, to get rid of all our best customers."

"Well, let customers be customers," said the woman, who for once lost her patience; " your children have more need of their father than two or three landlords; in whose house you spend more money than they bring into your shop."

"You are quite wrong there, wife," said Herr Munter, in loud tones; you women only see what lies straight before you; you little observe how we get profit unawares. The landlord of one of those inns like as not asks me the price of snuff or tobacco, and I tell him what I charge for the best Portorico or Doppelmops, and so one thing leads on to another. Little do you think, wife, when you sit complacently at the counter, and jump up to serve customers, how I have the night before worked hard to secure them. Do you not think that I should prefer sitting at home in my parlor, and reading the newspaper, to going off by train, and encountering foul weather? But a father of a family must not think of that. Yes," concluded he in a paternal manner, as he put on his coat, "put your children to bed, reckon up your money, put the fish into fresh water, and keep your. self comfortable at home while I am providing for the future;" and in the fulness of his self-denying fatherly feelings, he went to the "Bear," while his wife gazed after him with tearful eyes.

Every Sunday morning Herr Munter went with his wife and the apprentice to church, and after Divine service, he had to settle with some friends to which of the inns he should devote his fatherly feelings. The wife looked after the property and read to the children in the Bible, or amused herself with their gambols. As she had in the week-days so often to supply the place of her husband at the counter, she had but little leisure for walking out; but she walked out one day, and made an earnest request that God would point out a way to her to rescue her otherwise so worthy husband from the dangerous path into which he had wandered, and bring him back to the comfort and happiness of home.

It so happened that in the first year of their married life, her husband's darling wish was to possess a garden of his own; he had already a sort of plaything of one at the back of his house, and they studied all the old garden books which he could find in his cupboard. But when the family began to appear, and she had her last one, a very little dear thing, she found she had matters nearer to her heart than any garden, however pretty. Now, however, in her present condition, the thought suddenly occurred to her, "You shall buy a garden wherewith to rejoice your husband. But where ?" she added to herself, as she parted the locks of her eldest boy. In front of the higher gate there is a capital garden, and in excellent condition; but there the Bear stretches out his claws and paws. In front of the back gate are the beautiful fruit gardens; but there we must pass by the Eagle. Towards the common? but there lies the Lamb, looking very like a lion-indeed, if a lamb, a very ferocious one.

Meanwhile, in her walk she had reached the churchyard, a favorite play-ground of the children, and gazed feelingly upon the crosses and grave-stones beneath which the fore-elders of Herr Munter were buried. Greatly did the good woman respect and reverence these monuments. Beyond the lower wall of the churchyard her eyes fell upon a somewhat neglected garden, whose excellent soil seemed worthy of a better lot. It occurred to her that the garden, for a consideration, would be purchaseable.

"Buy it thou, then," said she to herself; influenced, as she believed, by a higher inspiration, and to the astonishment of her children she turned short round, let them gambol at will, and hastened immediately to the solicitor to whom the sale of the land was deputed.

"The price was moderate on account of the situation," said the seller. That was pleasant hearing to the good woman, for there was the best possible prospect all round, and the neighborhood of silent death had no terrors for her.

THE PERMISSIVE BILL.

She went home, without looking much after her counter this time, where the apprentice found herself much troubled with the customers, dived into the deepest recesses of her clothes-chest and found an old black box, and told out the sum. It was a pretty considerable sum in silver money, with the addition of one or two pieces of gold. This money she counted out with great care; she had not seen so much for a long time in her own possession. Carefully did she wrap up the remainder, which formed a sum large enough to serve as the nucleus for a small gardenhouse. It might seem wonderful how so simple and homely a woman could have saved up such a sum of money, but it was a home-gift from her mother for especial purposes, and she had solemnly promised only to spend it in times of need. Now, since she had observed her husband's inclination to go to the different inns, she had gradually increased her treasure by means of little instalments, and intended to devote it to the education of her children. "The time meant by my mother has now arrived," said she to herself; "I cannot do better for my children than win their father back again to them." She took the gold to the lawyer, who gave her the key of the garden, and promised secrecy.

A favorable opportunity soon arrived of informing her husband of the new acquisition. Tuesday was the day of his mother's death, when they had always been used to visit the churchyard together, and on one particular occasion but little business was expected, and the counter was left in charge of the maidservant. The children, who had no suspicion of the matter, frolicked away in front. Munter walked out once more with his wife, but he had been so little used to it of late, that he felt ill at ease, and was calculating in his own mind whether or no he should find time to get to the "Lamb" that night. When they came to their grandmother's grave, the children laid garlands and posies upon it, and Munter related to his attentively observant wife stories told a hundred times before, which showed that his heart was still open to kind feelings. As they were returning, he glanced, as his wife had done before, into the garden beyond. The turf sod was brilliantly green, the trees were in their brightest bloom. "A nice place that," said Munter, "pity it is not in good hands." "There must be wild strawberries and primroses in it," cried the children, longingly; we not go in ?" "The father unlocks the door for you," said the mother, laughing, and put the key into her husband's hand. "How? what?" inquired he, who marked his wife's demeanor more than he did her words, and saw that something particular was going on. "The key is yours, and the garden, too," said she, embracing him. "Mine ?" cried the astonished husband. "Ours!" shouted the children in ecstasy, and rushing into it, they rolled on the grass and showed in every way that they understood the laws of possession as well as a commissioner.

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Meanwhile the pair walked about the garden with great satisfaction, and she related to her husband how she had bought it; but the reason why she carefully concealed from him. He was inexhaustible in his plans for improving it. "The first improvement must be a little garden-house, that we may be able to sit there in fine weather." "Understand," said his wife, "I have still a trifle left to go towards it." The host of the "Lamb" was clean forgotten that evening, and the next day he could scarcely wait for the holiday hour when he went with his neighbor the carpenter, into the new garden to look out for a good situation for the house. They fixed upon a site, drew out a plan, and not a spare moment did he find that he did not employ upon the garden.

The children, overjoyed with their new possession,

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occupied themselves with various diversions-weeding, water-carrying, sand-bearing; and as they were often there, the father lived with them once more, and learned to enjoy their society most heartily.

The good woman who had made the free sacrifice of her private property for the sake of the new inheritance, had more than ever to replace her husband in the shop, and at the same time she was not without use in the garden; but she did all with joyous spirit and good-will, and was delighted to see her husband living in harmony with nature around, happy in and with his own; the wild beasts, Eagles," "Lions," and "Bears," and even the tame "Lamb," in vain stretched out their talons and paws. Applewine was soon a product of the soil, and served Herr Munter for drink; indeed, he pronounced it more full-bodied and substantial than what he could get at the brewer's, made it his winter's drink, and stayed at home.

Next summer the garden-house was ready; it was, and remained from that time, the centre of all their household joys, the scene of all their family rejoicings, the playground of the children, and, at a later time, the locality of their dearest recollections.

The neighborhood of the Garden of Death, which would have seemed so shocking to many people did not disturb this peaceable couple. If they sat cheerfully in the garden together, and heard the clock strike, and saw the pilgrim carried to his rest, the mother made a sign to her children to keep quiet, the parents clasped their hands and uttered a silent prayer for a blessing on themselves and their children, and then conversed about departed kindred and other topics, and so came round again to matters of real life. And how rich did the good woman feel herself in the means which she now possessed of rejoicing so many others with the beautiful blossoms, the good vegetables, and the precious fruits of the garden; and her husband rejoiced with her. never discovered what really induced his wife to part with her private hoard; but although he was somewhat jealous of her superiority to him, he would often say, Wife, that was a brave gift of thine."

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Thus lived and worked this happy couple many long years in quietness and peace; and as the trees grew higher and broader in the garden, so did the children grow around them. On the green turf on which their children had gambolled, the grandchild in its turned played; and the children sat in the garden-house and tasted the apple-wine, which improved every year, and talked of the joys and cares of their little homestead.

The garden in the neighborhood of the churchyard is still in the possession of her descendants, a blooming memento of her thrift and shrewdness.

The Permissive Bill.

ONCE more we remind our readers that the Permissive Bill stands for second reading on the 8th of June. Those of our friends who are intending to send forward petitions in favor of the measure, but have not yet done so, should lose not a day in getting the matter completed. It is most important that our M.P.'s should have no excuse for supposing that the people are indifferent on this great question.

BY DEGREES.-The Magistrates of Glasgow have unanimously resolved that the hours for publicans opening for business be eight o'clock in the morning instead of seven o'clock as formerly.

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THE SHADOW OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S.

The Shadow of St. Sepulchre's.

A LONDON STORY.

CHAPTER X.

It was with a sickening revulsion of feeling that Tully the porter, left Jem's room and adjourned to the breakfast room of the commercial inn where they had passed the night. In vain stood buttered toast an inch and a half thick before him. In vain did three duck eggs tempt him to crack their pale blue shells and see what was within. In vain did the fragrant tea invite him to begin his breakfast. All Tully's virtue and Christianity (and he was not devoid of either), could but just restrain him from uttering a few rough oaths in his native Doric, at the expense of the young scamp who had just made such a fool of

him.

His instructions were to look for Jem for a fortnight, and if he did not succeed before that time in discovering him, to put the detectives on his track and return home. This he did. And while the legally authorized blood-hounds sniffed nose-to-earth for their prey, Tully set off with rather crest-fallen mien for the North.

He arrived on an afternoon in midwinter, for it was now the month of January, and each dozen miles he sped made him wrap his thick cloak more closely around him. As he neared the station he felt in very low spirits indeed. And when the engine screamed its warning, and the break was applied in the guard's van, and the long grinding, sliding friction brought at last the carriages to a stop in front of the platform, Tully stepped out with feelings of disgust from his snug carriage into the piercing air. Snow was lying thinly on the ground; more was promised by the biting North-east wind which already brought one or two flakes as an instalment, to try how the rest would be liked when they came.

As Tully advanced to the workhouse gates, his bag swinging in his left hand, and his stout stick grasped in his right, he saw several of the leering paupers crowding near the gate. They had evidently caught a glimpse of the porter coming up the snow-sprinkled path, and, as all knew his errand, they were curious to hear how it had succeeded.

“Well, Measter Tully, have 'ee brought 'im home? Wot's Lunnun loike now?"

"Has'nt 'ee got no young measter noo?" But Tully scornfully glared at them all, and walked up to the master's lodge, where he knocked.

Evans was sitting before a roaring fire, his legs on the chimney-piece, the very impersonation of comfort. Indeed, had Mary seen him then, I think she could hardly have believed he wanted a wife, however well he might have appreciated a sweetheart.

"Well! back alone ?"

"So I be, Measter Evans, and I'd loike to ha' had better news. I had the young lad cotcht and ready fur to start on this morning, and he slipped me as neat as an eel the last moment;" and Tully gave a circumstantial account of what is already before the reader.

Personally, Evans did not care a whit. That James Neville was alive or dead, found or missing, was to him a matter of no consideration whatever. But individually it touched him closer. He had identified, in his own mind, his success in his little love suit with Jems' capture, so that when one failed he lost hope in the other.

"That's bad news-- bad news, Tully," said he, "but you did your duty; and now go and let Muston get your supper, and something warm."

"Not spirits, then, sir. I see enough o' them up

in Lunnun, and wot's done by them, to let 'em alone while I lives; I'll take a hot cup o' tea or coffee, with your leave, from Mrs. Muston."

So Evans was left alone, and up went his feet again to their former repose on the chimney-piece.

Now, William Evans was sorry that things turned out so. He had pictured to himself the whole scene. Tully leading back the captive, with his spirit suffi ciently broken to allow of his being quietly brought home again. He, the master, the agent of all the happiness which that restoration would bring with it. His servant sent; his pardon given; his name closely bound up with the boy's return to his joyful family; and then William pictured to himself what an opening would then be made for future visits to the Eden where his fair one was. How, even that first day of the lad's restoration, he would call pretty Mary to the window, and take advantage of her melting mood, to gain at least a step in advance in his suit.

In all this William Evans, as you see, songht his own interests. "And, therefore (exclaims the perfect reader) William Evans was not a virtuous man. He acted thus, confessedly, for self-love. He was selfish." Well, don't be too hard on him, but think, reader, what you would have done in his place? Would your sorrow in the sorrow of that family of the Nevilles have been unselfish and noble? would you have grieved, not because of the bar to your own plans, but because of their touching grief? There is an old proverb which means that we should test our judgment of others by applying our rules to ourselves; and the carrying out of the plan would silence us very often in our criticisms of our neighbors.

The interview with the Nevilles was not a cheerful one. And William returned to his fireside rather cross, for the whole time he was at Eden he had never caught Mary's eye once, never received one glance of encouragement. She had been wholly oc cupied in the family sorrow—a sorrow which, although alleviated by the assurance that the son and brother was alive and well, was nevertheless deepened by the conviction that he was wasting, in riotous living, his early powers, talents, and time.

But as William thought over things, it became more and more impressed on his mind that he could, with care, so bring about matters that the return of Jemmy to Easton should be the crowning of his own domestic happiness. And William had good enough in him-what have I said to give an opposite impression?-to honestly long for Mary as his wife, in consideration of her general character as a prudent, sensible, hard-working and intelligent girl, as well as for the fact (not, of course, unimportant to him any more than to every one else), that she had the softest eyes and the sweetest face in the Riding.

Therefore he laid himself out to compass these two ends, to get a promise from Mrs. Neville and Mary, that Jem's return, by his influence, should give him leave to claim his mistress' hand; and secondly, to set on foot a still better prepared plan for recovering the wanderer.

A few days had elapsed. William's sister Lizzie, a fine girl of about sixteen, in many respects very like her brother, had come to spend a while with him. And the arrival of this sister was made a ground for asking the pair to tea at Eden. Of course, ostensibly, the object of William that evening was to mature with Mrs. Neville (who was burning to go up to London herself) a wise plan for tracking and recovering the boy, now nearly five months from home. In the mean time, Lizzie, who was not shy, no more than her brother, had won on the hearts of the Neville girls, so that they promised to be great friends, and organized plans for seeing each other frequently. Thus matters were begun satisfactorily; and all that

THE SHADOW OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S.

one evening's conversation could be expected to do, was done towards accomplishing the desired result. O how either party would have valued just then, one line from Jem, to give even the slightest clue to his hiding place! But sullenly and doggedly Jem kept to himself. Not one line, not one word did he ever

write home.

Let us turn to him again. He was a pauper once more, in a few days after his last interview with Captain Small. And a pauper's fate stared him in the face. That was intolerable. The son of the master of a workhouse reduced to seek workhouse

shelter! Impossible! But what else? Now, in answer to this, let it be known that certain friends of the poor have provided, in several localities in the huge million-peopled city, sleeping houses where homeless heads may lie, and shivering limbs relax themselves before a good coal fire. There none need go who look for soft pillow or springing bed. The boards are the bed, and a log of timber the bolster. Yet hundreds go. And were this simple plan of relief employed upon a larger scale, hundreds more would nightly have a shelter, who, as it is, nightly crouch in old archways and dark corners, sheltering their chill limbs from bitter blasts by projecting battlements of bridges, and buttresses of Christian Churches.

How changed is Jemmy Neville when we see him there! Unfortunate in every after step; once Matt Long had become his guiding star, with spirit still unbroken, with indomitable pride, but without resolution enough of a proper kind to look for regular honest work, and stick to it-he would not stoop to crave money to return home; he would keep to his motto, to succeed or starve in London.

To one of these night refuges, therefore, near the Bow Church, Jem, hungry and thirsty, bent his way one night late, in January, 1854. He crept up the stair, ashamed to be there, yet fearing death from exposure if he stayed in the streets, and once in the room, made his way, as near as he could, to the fire at one end. A crowd of poor and needy filled the benches and stretched themselves on the ground,-a crowd not unlike, in its appearance, that which we have described at the beginning of this history, in the workhouse, "Ward B," at Easton. Here lay, or crouched, men, old and haggard, with snowy beards and dirt-begrimed faces, and scarce a rag to cover their skins. There sat little boys hugging each other for warmth, and crying quietly for hunger. At one corner of the fire a servant "out of place," that saddest portion of a civilized community, polished up a few remaining brass buttons, while a neighbor obliged him by reading out the advertisements for servants from the "Times" a fortnight old. Here a cripple stitched, with leather thong, the bag of his bag-pipes, to enable him to earn a few coppers tomorrow. There, four roughs sat on the floor playing whist intently. Lastly, on all sides crowds of sleepers and snorers bestrewed the floor, and promised to leave little room for their comrades should they attempt to lie down, and little comfort to them while they still sat up.

Into the midst of these Jemmy stepped, and, to hide himself from notice, sat down at the outskirts of a group of men who were arguing together. He had had no dinner or supper that day, and was low and miserable. Before long the door of the large room opened and the loud noise was hushed for an instant, as a tall young man in black, carrying a small gilt-edged volume in his hand, stepped in and stood under the gas-lamp. The noise was loud again; many spoke as if to drown the words the young man was about to speak. But a few cried loudly, "Hush," and

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when the book was opened almost all was still. How much in Jem's history hung on the opening of that book in the night refuge that cold January night!

CHAPTER XI.

"LISTEN," said the speaker, "nearly three thousand years ago God Almighty gave his commands to his servant Moses, of whom I suppose you have many of you heard, to bring a vast multitude of men - the children of Israel' they were called-out of a land of trouble, and work, and starvation, to a better land of joy and peace, riches and happiness. I suppose you would like to hear any one telling you how you might change your poverty for riches, and your misery for enjoyment. This was what Moses was told to do. So he put himself at the head of this body of 600,000 men, with their wives and children, and, with God's wonderful help, they all marched out of the country where they were, over which a tyrant ruled, to a better place the land of Canaan. Now, on their way, many of them grew dissatisfied and cross, and in their hearts, if you can believe it, turned back again to Egypt. Suppose you were all given plenty of easy employment, plenty of exercise without weariness, plenty of wholesome food, and water to drink, would you not think yourselves mad and foolish if you were to wish yourselves back here in poverty again!"

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Aye, would we !" shouted a dozen voices. "Well," continued the speaker, "that was just what these people did, and the consequence was that God Almighty was very much displeased, and he sent serpents among the people, which bit them, and a great number of them died. Then, indeed, they cried out to God to help them; then they would have given anything that they had remained satisfied with what God had done for them. But now listen to how God treated them. He did not slay them all. But he made a plan for healing them all if they liked. This was the way. He told his servant Moses to make, out of brass, the likeness of a serpent, and put it on top of a tall pole, and stick it into the ground, so that all the people might look at it."

"What was that for ?" screamed a couple of voices. "You shall hear. He said, 'It shall come to pass that whosoever is bitten, when he looketh upon the serpent of brass he shall live.' Whoever felt that he was wounded, dying, and poisoned, all he had to do was to lift up his eyes to that bright serpent glittering on the end of the pole, and, by the wonderful mercy of God, he was made as well as ever he was in his life." "Do you

These words caused some confusion. think, now, I'm goin' to b'lieve the like of that, 'cos I'm cuter nor to think a bit of a hidol like that would have cured a man dyin' of pison."

"Blow you, Charlie, the gentleman has not said 'is say yet; aren't you a fool to be talking afore he's told you the whole on it ?"

"Well, if it warn't a clever way to doctor them all in a heap," suggested a third.

"Hush," slowly said the young speaker, extending his arm over their heads, as if he was exercising a magical art. All were quiet. Then, in a voice so low that all involuntarily strained their ears to hear what he had to say, he went on :

"Now, my men, that seems foolish enough till you know what it means. The serpent of brass was meant to teach something more than they thought. There was a time, long after that, when God sent His own dear Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, into this world out of heaven, to die for sinners. He said one day, 'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the

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