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 sus. picion 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 return

can

ing, 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. 66 'A nice place that," said Munter, "pity it is not in good bands." "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.

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, 66 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. He 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."

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.

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 sufficiently 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 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, sought 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 occupied 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

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 resolation 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!"

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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wilderness, even so must the Son of Man (that's Himself) be lifted up; that whosever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Now, what did He mean to say? That He was going to be taken and lifted up and put upon the cross, nailed through His hands and feet, and put to death in dreadful pain, in the sight of all the people who chose to come and mock Him. This all happened to Jesus. He never deserved it. He was the kindest friend to the poor, the most charitable, the most hearty, the most noble man ever lived. He never said a hard word to any poor man, and many a time when they came to Him, He gave them whatever he could; but that was not much, for He was a poor man Himself."

"Not as poor as we be, I'll be sworn," cried one burly fellow from the fire, looking up from a newspaper.

"He had no place to lay his head, no more than you had this night till you came in here. And yet with all that this man had come down from God. He was God. He chose to be poor that He might know what poverty is, and help the poor."

The words of the speaker were beginning to strike home, for one young fellow was just proposing a cheer for that humble man who loved the poor, when the speaker quietly resumed:

"Now, this was Jesus Christ. He never sinned, but He was put to death most cruelly, just as if He was the worst vagabond in the city."

"We beant wagabons; we beant."

"I never meant you were, indeed," said the speaker; "but listen to me, He died there nailed to a great wooden cross, not because He had sinned, but to bear the punishment which bad men and women deserved. We are like the people who were dying from the serpent's bite. Jesus was lifted up like the brass serpent on a cross, and God says, whoever looks to him will be saved. I will tell you what I mean-we are sinners."

"There's many wus nor we," growled an old man from the corner.

Aye, my man, but we are all sinners, you and I, in God's sight, are black and sinful, and that Man who was crucified came to take us up to heaven to be happy with God. But as we could not be happy with our sins, He made a way for us to get rid of them, and that is by looking to Him, praying Him for His pardon, and asking Him to wash away our sins in His own blood. He will forgive any sinner here who will be his servant. Do you, any of you, wish to be happy? Do you wish to know the way to heaven? Do you wish to be saved? Then come and ask Jesus to bring you there; He will hear you if you do."

Thus spoke the young man, his voice often rising like the sea-wind when it pipes through the rigging in a stormy night, for the voices of the audience were often busy criticising what he said, his dress, his way of speaking, and the like; but sometimes his tones softened off to the lowest lulling whisper, and a spirit of peace hushed the strange assembly.

Mr. Locke (the young missionary) cast his eyes round the room when he had done speaking, to see if any there seemed to take his words to heart. There was one. Seated not far from him, a youth, under twenty evidently, and with expressive, though somewhat haggard countenance, had fixed his bright eye on Mr. Locke the whole time he was speaking, and as he concluded, he bent his head, and the speaker saw the drop, drop of unwilling tears plashing on the floor. Jem could not help them. Something which he had never known before came choking up in his throat. Something told him of old times in the little church of Easton, in far off Yorkshire; he recalled

lessons of love which had seemed strange things to him there, and for which he did not care when every. thing went smoothly with him. Now all was changed. And yet, was his tearful mood mere home sickness? I think not.

Gently touching Jem on the shoulder, young Mr. Locke led him out of the room, to the dimly lighted passage which conducted to the head of the stairs.

"Tell me, are you a sinner ?"

"I never thought it till now, sir; but indeed if I could have told what I was at, I mean, if I ever thought I was going against that Saviour, I think I'd have held back."

"Are you willing to be saved ?"

"For my age I've gone an awful long way backwards, sir, I'm afraid."

"Dear young fellow, Jesus Christ is able to save you now. Believe it. Whatever you've done, I don't know it, of course. He died for you. He bore your sin, he paid the full price. God is satisfied, believe in Him, and you shall be saved."

"I'll try." The words were cautious words, but the broken down youth felt his soul glowing with an inexpressible longing for God and for Jesus, he could not account for it. He was drawn by a hand which would not let him go. He was unable to resist. He believed, he felt he was forgiven! He did not, however, say so. It was his nature to keep his feelings

to himself.

"Well, do try, and pray for it."

And then Mr. Locke asked Jem of all his previous history, and was not a little astonished at the events of those few months past. He felt a kindly feeling for the boy, and bade him come to 62, Philanthropy Circus, next day at nine.

You may depend on it James Neville was there. A wonderful change (begun at Westminster, dormant ever since, revived and perfected last night) had completely possessed him. His former careless ways seemed so odious, his drinking seemed such an intolerable sin, his Saviour seemed so kind and good, that he knew not whether to be bowed down with shame or transported with delight, for he had found the pearl of great price, a treasure which, worthless as clay to those who have not learnt to know its value, is dearer than diamonds to such as Jem, to whom One who is Holy has revealed its pricelessness.

Mr. Locke was employed in the firm of Perbeck, Wilson, & Howerby, general merchants, near St. Katharine's Docks, and was one of those who give up their spare time to try and do a little good in the world before they go out of it, and have no more opportunity. He soon cheered up Jem amazingly about his wordly prospects. He made him accompany him to the merchants' office, and a few words with Mr. Howerby set all to rights. Mr. Locke was a trusted clerk, and on his recommendation, given with confidence, even after so short an acquaintance, James Neville was taken into employment as a label writer (that important office being vacant, and Jem's handwriting being superior); salary, four shillings a week to begin with.

That night Jem went to a little room not very far from Mr. Locke's house in Philanthropy Circus, with feelings such as he had never before experienced; and James Neville, the runaway clerk, the companion of thieves, the juvenile tippler, the billiard marker, and pauper, knelt down by his bedside, and, amid floods of tears, poured out all his full heart to his heavenly Father for "all the blessings of this life," but above all, for his inestimable love in the redemption of the world, and of the sinner, by Jesus Christ.

(To be continued.)

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A SPIRIT was early distilled from fermented corn (black oats), in Ireland, and known by the striking popular name of Builcann, from 'buile,' madness, and ceann,' the head. Madness-of-head indeed! In the reign of Philip and Mary, the Government, not yet blinded by custom, regarded its manufacture as a sinful and dangerous destruction of the food of the people, and passed an act for its suppression. The Lord Deputy, Sir John Perrot, during a visit to Galway, addressed the corporation "touching reformation in the commonwealth," commanding " that a more straighter order be taken to bar the making of aqua vita of corne than hitherunto hath been used, for that the same is a consumation [consuming] of all the provision of corne in the commonwealth;" and "that the aqua vitæ that is sould in townes ought rather to be called aqua mortis, to poyson the people, than to comfort them in any good sorte; and in like manner all their byere." The testimony of Captain Josias Bodley, in his curious description of a visit into Lecale, County Down, A.D. 1602–3, and of Fynes Moryson, the historian of Ireland, as to the same period, may be accepted as conclusive evidence of the prevailing vice of intemperance, and in connexion with what may be styled an Open Traffic. Moryson says:-"At Dublin, and in some other cities, they have Taverns, wherein Spanish and French Wines are sold; but more commonly the merchants sell them by pints and quarts in their own cellars. (The usquæbagh is preferred before our aqua vitæ, because the mingling of raisins, fennelseed, and other things mitigating the heat, and making the taste pleasant, makes it less inflame.) These drinks the English-Irish drink largely, and in many families both men and women use excess therein; but when they come to any market town to sell a car or horse, they never return home until they have drunk the price in Spanish wine, which they call the King of Spain's daughter." The act of Philip and Mary, however, arrested the common use of whisky, so that, as we learn from Sir W. Petty's Political Anatomy, in 1672, the working classes had beer for their beverage. He, too, complains of the excessive number of the public-houses.

The Act of 3rd and 4th Philip and Mary (1566), recites:-Forasmuch as Aqua Vitæ, a drink nothing profitable to be daily drunken and used, is now universally throughout this realm made, and thereby much corn, grain, and other things is consumed, spent, and wasted, to the great hindrance, cost, and damage of the poor inhabitants of this realm," etc: proceeds to enact that none, save Peers, gentlemen of £10 Freehold, and Freemen, for their private use, shall make aqua vitæ, without the Lord-Deputy's license. This act greatly influenced the national taste, by inducing the use of the weaker and less perilous drinks, mead, ale, and wine; and so effectually checked the use of spirits, that, as appears from the first Excise account (consequent on the Act of 14th and 15th Charles II., by which a duty was put on spirits distilled under certain regulations), a revenue was yielded in 1719 of only £5,585. Unfortunately, in the reigns of Anne and the first Georges a notion prevailed among the Statesmen of at once encouraging the tillage of land in Ireland, and enlarging the revenue through the manufacture of spirits, to which is to be clearly traced that national demoralization which politicians are fond of ascribing to anything but its real cause. Wise, foreseeing men, however, protested against the evil. Dr. Madden, founder of the Royal Dublin Society, in his Reflec

tions proper for the Gentlemen of Ireland, 1739, proposes this:

"We resolve, as Masters of Families, that, as to drinking, we will contribute as little as possible to the excessive and destructive consumption of Foreign Wines and Brandies. As debaucht as we are grown, many men can remember when we were as remarkable for sobriety, as we are now for rioting and drunkenness; when our ancestors, of the best families of the nation, used to have their wines brought in by dozens, and when sack and spirituous liquors were sold at the Apothecaries' Shops for cordials to the sick.

What is most amazing in this epidemical madness, is, that there are few men of virtue or sense among us but rail at it, lament-and practise it—and gravely drink the prosperity of Ireland in its blood."

Dr. Smith, in 1745, "doubted whether the use of this liquor (whisky) by the common people, may not in time contribute to the ruin of tillage, by proving a slow poison to the drinkers of it." Not only did it affect the national habit of body and industry, but of course the character, increasing the proclivity to turbulence and unreflectiveness. When Mr. Walker, the Recorder of Dublin, was examined before the Privy Council, in 1803, he referred to whisky drinking as the occasion of the excitable character of the population; and being reminded of its importance to revenue, replied-"Of what use is that revenue, if it produces an insurrection every 20 or 30 years ?" The Government, however, seduced by the prospect of revenue, and the landlords by visions of rent, gave fatal encouragement to drinking. What was the consequence? The number of gallons of home-made spirits which paid duty in 1729 was only 150,000 gallons, but the amount had risen to 600,000 in 1755. In consequence of distillation being prohibited from March, 1755, to September, 1759, the next five years' average was diminished to 323,557; but the restriction being removed, it sprang up again to 600,000, until, by gradual increase, it reached, in 1795, no less than 4,000,000 gallons. With this increase the importation of foreign spirits had kept pace, rising from 439,150 gallons in 1729, to 800,000 gallons in 1795. The population had only doubled in that period, but spirit drinking had increased elevenfold, giving an annual average of 24 gallons of spirits to every man, woman, and child in the country. An increase of crime, and a correspond ing corruption of morals, were quite visible throughout the whole kingdom, and penetrated all classes.

In cities the change from industrious mechanics, to dissolute and riotous combinators, was no less deplored than the reckless and barbarous spirit which had come over the peasantry. In 1760, a petition to Parliament urged, "That the lower classes of the manufacturers in Dublin were rendered dissolute and idle by the low price at which spirits were retailed, and the increase of dram-shops in the city;" whereupon a Committee of the House resolved, "That keeping up spirituous liquors, at a high price, would greatly contribute to the health, sobriety, and industry of the common people." The Parliament, however, was as reckless as the people, and two practical motions to impose the highest rates of license, and to enquire into the character of those applying for the license, were negatived. Four years later, the Corporation of Sheermen and Dyers of Dublin presented another petition, setting forth the decay in the silken and woollen manufactures, and expressing their alarm at the daily increasing number of shops for the sale of spirituous liquors, "whereby a ready oppor tunity is offered to the journeymen and servants to make too free a use of spirits, who are thereby frequently rendered incapable for a great part of their time from following their occupations, to the manifest