DRINKING! SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1850. WHETHER it be attributable to our chilly northern skies and foggy atmosphere, or to the strong native appetite for stimulus which, from time immemorial, has characterized our race, certain it is that the people of Great Britain are a very drinking people, consuming enormous quantities of ardent spirits, wine, and fermented liquor of various sorts. They seem to have a hot spark in their throats, which stands in need of perpetual cooling, or to be troubled with a thirst which is perennial, or almost unquenchable. [PRICE 1d. The favourite potation of the latter is beer and stout, of which the consumption in England quite as much exceeds that of Scotland, as the latter exceeds the former in its consumption of ardent spirits. About twenty-five million bushels of grain-equivalent to some fifteen hundred million pounds of bread (were the grain converted into bread instead of malt)-are consumed annually in England in the manufacture of beer, porter, ale, stout, and such like drinks. Englishmen are generally quick at counting the cost of things: and a word may be said on this head. A little Black Book" was recently published, showing the cost of the Government at something like sixty millions ayear-truly a formidable sum-the details of which have excited no small amount of indignation. But what will the people say when they are told, as we now tell them, that not less than forty millions a-year are voluntarily spent by them upon drink? We do not defend the former excessive expenditure, nor can we say anything in defence of the latter. But we must remember, that for the expenditure on the purposes of Government, we have at least an admirable post-office, an army and navy, courts of law, diplomatic and consular establishments, penitentiaries, Queen, Lords, and Commons, and a great deal more. And what have we in return for our other expenditure? Only a prodigious quantity of poison, producing poverty, demoralization, and crime! A searching reform in our public financial affairs may be very urgently called for; but we think it will be admitted, that there is even a still more imperative necessity for an equally searching reform in our personal and social expenditure, in respect of drink. The drinking of intoxicating liquors enters into and pervades our entire social system. We drink at births, marriages, and deaths. We drink in celebration of our successes, and we drink to console ourselves for our defeats. We drink to enhance joy, and we drink to drown sorrow. When friends meet they drink, and when they part they drink. Men drink because they are together, and they drink because they are alone. Political rejoicings, social meetings, party gatherings, are all crowned with drink. Commercial men treat their customers to drink, working men gain their "footings" by drink, members of parliament secure many "most sweet voices" by drink. In winter we drink to keep out the cold, in wet weather to keep out the wet, in summer to keep out the heat. We drink to make our food digest; we drink to "qualify" this, that, and the other dish; we drink to keep away the cholera-in short, one would almost imagine, from the various uses of the kind to which drink is put, that it was the immortal Catholicon, the Grand Universal Remedy. But excuses to drink, in every way and on every occasion, are always ready at hand; and when it is employed in such a variety of ways, and on such a multitude of occasions, it need scarcely be matter for wonder that the quantity consumed in this country should be so very prodigious. We consume yearly about thirty million gallons of ardent spirits alone. The average annual consumption is above two quarts for every man, woman, and child in England and Ireland, and above two gallons a-piece for every man, woman, and child in Scotland. In the latter country, whiskey is cheap, the climate raw, and the people drouthy;" and hence the enormous consumption of the natives-each Scot consuming as much ardent spirits yearly as every two Irishmen, or every three Englishmen. From the year 1801 to the year 1846, the people of the United Kingdom spent nearly fifteen hundred millions of pounds sterling in intoxicating drinks; about £800,000,000 on spirits, £176,445,000 on wines, and £595,904,000 on malt; or equal to about double the amount of the present National Debt! The duty alone which we paid on the above articles during these fortyfive years, amounted to £644,968,553, or equivalent to about five-sixths of the National Debt.* *For further authentic details, see "Statistics, on the consumption &c., of ardent spirits, wines, and malt, in England, Scotland, and of the late secretaries of the National Temperance Society. HoulIreland, from 1801 to 1846 inclusire, By DAWSON BURNS, one ston and Stoneman. Our army costs us about ten millions a year, which we think a great deal too much; but, then we voluntarily spend about fifteen millions a year on whiskey, gin, brandy, and their villanous compounds! Our navy costs about eight millions; but, our beer, ale, and porter, cost from thirteen to fourteen millions! We pay less than a million for our admirable post-office, and more than four millions for our wines! The taxes we pay for our courts of law and justice amount to a little above a million: the taxes we pay on our tobacco and snuff are above four millions! Financial reform is surely needed, but at home, and in the public house, as much as anywhere else. Under two millions a year are spent on Life and Health Assurance; and about forty millions on drink of all kinds. Are not these facts most discreditable to us as a nation? It is not, however, merely because of the money which is worse than wasted on all this drink, that these facts are to be lamented; but, because of the many broken hearts, ruined characters, blasted homes, diseased frames, crowded prisons, vice, infamy, and moral ruin, which have everywhere followed in the track of drink. The money consideration is the very least,-though that is not to be overlooked; for the money saved from drink might have made hundreds of thousands of families happy and independent; but it is the moral wreckage-the brutish degradation-the frightful social suffering, that have been produced by our drinking practices, that form the most prominent considerations in our minds. Let us bear in mind too, that by far the largest portion of the above expenditure has been on the part of those who could the least afford it, namely the working classesfor, at least two-thirds of all the drink manufactured in the United Kingdom is for then use,-and we cannot fail to see in the facts we have stated still deeper cause for lamentation and dismay. What hope is there for a people who abandon themselves to so extensive a use of intoxicating drink? Such is the question, that at once presents itself in appalling force to the philanthropic mind! Drink destroys a man's self-respect, eats away his moral character, makes him powerless to resist the insidious approaches of vice, saps the foundation of his spiritual being, ruins his health, brutalizes his intellect, impoverishes his family, desolates his home, and spreads a moral pestilence throughout society. The money now spent by us in drinking, might found and maintain schools in every parish, and a college in every county; and it would leave a surplus sufficient to provide public libraries for the free use of the whole population. Or, employed in another direction, it would enable most working men to invest themselves with the electoral franchise, to put money in the savings' bank, or in the assurance office, and to provide for the comfortable maintenance now, as well as in time coming, of themselves, their wives, and their families. The time which many men spend in drinking would, if better employed, enable them to master the entire realm of knowledge, to read every known tongue, to procure and study every accessible book. habit," says Dr. Johnson, "is scarcely heavy enough to be felt, till it is too strong to be broken." We must begin with children. Abstinence from drink ought to be taught in all our schools, in all our churches, by all our teachers. It ought to be taught in all our homes, by fathers and mothers. And example will teach it more forcibly then than any words can do. When the habit is formed, comparatively little can be done. Yet, here too is room for activity, and hope of success. The teetotallers have shown what is to be accomplished by well-directed efforts, in the host of men whom they have made and kept sober, and in the thousands of drunkards they have reclaimed. The Teetotal missionary is one of the most beneficial workers of the age; and let no one discourage his noble efforts to reclaim the erring and the lost. There is really in politics no more vital question than this; in physiology, none more important as regards our sanitary well-being; in morals and religion, none more urgent, as concerns the real virtue and happiness of our race. Therefore, all who earnestly desire a purer morality, a more spiritual religion, and a more happy social state, must fervently wish the temperance labourers "God-speed." FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO. The pitying tears that steal from eyes,- AN OLD IRISH MANSION. ONE of the pleasantest spots I ever visited, wherein to dream away a summer's afternoon, was the wooded mountainous demesne of Oldcourt. How, in years gone by, I loved that place, with its mossy orchard, beneath whose venerable apple trees grew such hare-bells, pink, blue and white, as one never sees in these degenerate days. It belonged to a friend of mine; and then, years ago, when a shy, dreamy child, living in a fantastic world, whose unreal garniture was furnished by those marvellous upholsterers, Haroun Al Raschid, Daniel De Foe, and the mighty two of the Tweed and the Avon, whose names should never be disassociated—there I used, day after day, to ramble and repose amongst the solemn old trees, building those castles whose architecture owns no order, and whose foundation rests but on the key-stone of a rainbow-arch. But I must remember what I am now, a sober woman, writing for sober people, in a sober age, whose only dreams are those that may be supposed to visit railway sleepers; so I will leave the fair wild grounds of Oldcourt and describe the mansion they surrounded. state of dilapidation, which kept an exploring visitor in a most charming state of uncertainty as to whether his premier pas would land him on the boards of the second, or send him crashing through the ceiling of the first story. The abolition of the custom of drinking intoxicating It was a real old Irish tumble-down concern, abounddrinks would empty our gaols and penitentiaries, diminishing in dark mysterious unswept corridors, long arched our poor-rates, fill our churches, schools, and mechanics' linings, and low-roofed rooms, whose flooring was in a institutes, and effect a moral and religious improvement of the grandest character. It would make homes happier, the people wiser, and the world better in all respects. Although drunkenness is gradually diminishing in this country with the progress of intelligence (as shown in a recent article in this Journal), still a great deal remains to be done in this wide field of improvement. There is no field of philanthropic labour we know of, that will yield more abundant fruits than this. There is room enough for all activities here. Those who would take part in this great movement must aim at the habit, and begin at the beginning. "The diminutive chain of One wing of the house was more modern than the rest, and kept in good repair by the family who resided in it. They consisted of a father, mother, and several sons and daughters of various ages, all kind, hospitable people, never so well pleased as when their house was crammed with visitors, for whose refreshment a superabundant table was kept perpetually spread, and a whiskey cask perennially flowing. The Hicksons, for so I shall call them, though themselves of excellent birth, were "no ways particular" as to the rank or breeding of their guests. Every one that chose to drop in at Oldcourt, from the baronet of twenty descents to the livery-stable keeper who came from the next town to purchase hay, was made welcome to dinner, and afterwards despatched to the terra incognita vp stairs, on a sort of hap-hazard chase after a bedroom, the usual formula employed by the host being:-"Just go up stairs to the lobby like a good fellow, open the doors as you go along, and take possession of the first room you see without a carpet bag in it." Of course, under these circumstances, rather queer rencounters would sometimes take place, and the nocturnal comforts of the guests be but indifferently provided for, had it not been for the superintending presence of an ancient dame, yclept Mrs. Mahoney, whose stores of fine white herb-scented sheets, home-filled down beds, and soft warm blankets, appeared quite inexhaustible. The mistress of the house, in conjunction with her able aide-de-camp, the cook, was chiefly concerned with the commissariat department, leaving the care of all means and appliances for worshipping the drowsy god to dear old nurse Mahoney. How well I remember her with her thick muslin neckerchief, and cap to match, encircled by a broad black ribbon, commemorative of the fact that she was "a lone widdy;" her shining black stuff petticoat rendered visible by her bright cotton gown being turned up in front, drawn tightly back, and carefully pinned, so as to fall behind in a long pocket-shaped festoon, a fashion, I believe, familiar to Ireland. Since the earliest ages-for who forgets the exquisite mention of "Deborah, Rebecca's nurse," buried beneath the "Oak of Weeping"-the faithful old domestic, bearing that endearing name, suggestive alike of care bestowed on our earliest and latest day, has been cherished and respected among right-minded people. I am not ashamed to confess that, when somewhere about my tenth year, I first read of Montague and Capulet, I loved and understood the nurse far better that I did either Romeo or Juliet; only, I rather wondered that so big a girl as the latter would allow the old woman to scold her. However, to return to the matter in hand, Oldcourt, amongst its various perfections, possessed one undeniable proof of its claims to a venerable antiquity, viz., a haunted chamber. The great-grandmother of Mr. Hickson had been a distinguished personage in her day, a rich heiress, a haughty beauty, and, withal, a clever woman of business. While assuming an overbearing manner towards the rich, she was hospitable and generous to the poor; in short, her character might be described as a sort of compound of Queen Elizabeth and Lady Bountiful. She stood mightily on her pedigree, and no lady patroness of Almack's could be more exclusive touching the birth and breeding of those whom she invited to her house, than was the proud mistress of Oldcourt. She died at a good old age, expiring peacefully on a rich state bed in one of the best rooms of her mansion. After her funeral the apartment was shut up, and for years remained unoccupied. Of course, "there needs no ghost to tell us" that, by the denizens of the servants' hall and surrounding cottages, the "old mistress's ghost" was said to walk there, and terrify any bold nocturnal intruder, especially if he happened to be of humble rank. Time, however, rolled on, and at the period I write of, the extensive hospitality of Mr. Hickson, at times, rendered inevitable the occupation of his ancestress's formidable bed-room by some jovial guest, who cared not for any spirits but those against which Father Mathew wages Still the state-room was not a favourite apartment, and was much less frequently inhabited than the smallest cranny-hole under nurse Mahoney's jurisdiction. war. It was rather difficult to come at her real opinion touching the haunted room. She would sigh, shake her head, purse up her mouth, and look mysterious, when interrogated on the subject. I remember her once saying, when, fresh from the perusal of "The Midnight Bell," I ventured to put some queries to her on the subject of apparitions, "Ask me no questions, child, and I'll tell you no lies." With which oracular response I was fain to content my youthful imagination. It happened one day, in the month of August, when the house was more than usually crowded, that Mr. Hickson received a visit from an inhabitant of the neighbouring town. This was a Mr. Murphy, agent to a gentleman who possessed extensive grouse-moors, lying some miles to the west of Oldcourt. Mr. Hickson was very fond of shooting, and had tried in various ways to obtain leave to go on these mountains from their non-resident owner. By a masterly course of conciliation, and a few judicious presents to Mr. Murphy, all fair and above-board however, he had succeeded in obtaining the desired permission; and now the worthy agent had come out to Oldcourt on the 19th of August, bringing with him a formidable looking fowling-piece, and a very mongrel sort of pointer, in order, as he said, "to have a crack at the birds himself, Mrs. Murphy being particularly partial to cold grouse-pie." Truth to say, Mr. Hickson and his assembled friends would as soon have had Mr. Murphy's room as his company;" however, there was no help for it-it was both polite and politic to make him welcome; and all the other dormitories being occupied, Mrs. Mahoney was formally directed to prepare "the old mistress's room" for this plebeian guest, whose father had been a baker, and who, in Hibernian parlance, "could not count a grandfather at all." Mr, Murphy, when in the society of his betters, was a timid sort of man, rather apt to be troubled with mauvaise honte-an unpleasant and unnational infirmity, which however abated considerably in the course of the evening's potations; and after predicting that the morrow would be a sort of Bartholomew's day to the grouse, he retired to his room in a most unwonted state of hilarity. Next morning the party of impatient sportsmen assembled in good time round the breakfast-table, and marvellous was the demolition of substantial viands, including hot meat and potatoes, that ensued. At length the host, laying down his knife and fork, exclaimed Where's Murphy this morning? I'm sure I hope the fellow won't mistake any of us for grouse, and pepper our faces by chance." Not he," rejoined one of the guests-"even if he did fire at one of us, he'd be sure to miss. I was out with him one day, and I give you my word, he couldn't shoot a hay-stack flying-the very dogs were laughing at him!" A Just then the individual in question entered the room, and took his seat at the table in solemn silence. sadder, if not a wiser man, he certainly looked than on the previous evening; and his cadaverous paleness of visage caused his host to exclaim Why, Murphy, what's the matter with you, man; you look as if you had seen a ghost?" A deep groan prefaced the reply. "Ah, don't be talking to me, but give me a cup of green tea to keep the life in me, until I make the best of my way home out of this terrible place." Every one's attention was now of course excited; a torrent of questions was poured on the poor man, who at length, when fortified by the desired beverage, seasoned with "a small taste of whiskey," began his tale aa follows: When I went up stairs last night I wasn't long turning into bed, but I didn't put out my candle, for I re membered hearing that the old lady used to walk, and I thought to myself, 't would be just as pleasant as not to have the light in the room till I went to sleep. Well, somehow I couldn't do that as fast as I thought, so I lay awake turning one thing and another over in my mind, till the house was all hushed, and there was a big long snuff on the candle. Suddenly I heard a sound on the lobby; tap, tap, tap, it went, till it came to the door. 'Merciful Moses!' says I to myself, 'tis the highheeled shoes of the old woman, and here she is!' The door opened slowly, and sure enough in walked the old lady. Though all my limbs were shaking, I had sense enough left to pretend to be asleep, and I kept the corner of my eye open. She was dressed in red satin, with highheeled shoes on her feet, and a brass candlestick in her hand; and she had a mighty fierce look with her, that went through and through me, as she first looked at me, and then walked towards the table. She took up my candlestick, quenched the candle with her finger, and walked out of the room, giving a look as good as a process at me, before she shut the door. Oh, indeed 'tis truth," he added, seeing incredulity strongly depicted in the faces of his auditors. "Sure the housemaid can tell you there was no candlestick in my room this morning. I didn't close an eye all night with the fright I got, and I wouldn't spend another hour in this house if I got the fee-simple of Munster by it!" So saying, the ghost-seer arose, took a rueful farewell of the company, and, despite all remonstrances and conjectural explanations, set out for town the moment his horse was saddled. The Hicksons and their guests had no faith in apparitions, yet they could not help saying to each other, that it certainly was a queer business, and that Murphy, goose as he was, must have seen something. Various remarks and conjectures were offered, until Mr. Hickson jumped up from table, saying "Come boys, 'tis high time we were on the mountains. Peace be with my old grandmother! Who knows but she saved some of us from being shot, by frightening Murphy back to town!" About an hour after breakfast, when the sportsmen had all departed, Mrs. Hickson betook herself to the upper regions, there to commune with Mrs. Mahoney, ostensibly touching domestic regulations, but in reality to gain some information respecting Mr. Murphy's adventure. The lady, however, resolved to introduce the matter cautiously, and, if possible, not allow the ghoststory to transpire. She therefore commenced "That Mr. Murphy is a strange man, nurse; he went away quite suddenly after breakfast." "Oh then, I'm sure Ma'am," rejoined the faithful domestic, "he's small loss any way. 'Twas well we weren't all burnt alive in our beds last night through his means." "How was that, Nurse?" "I'll tell you then, Ma'am. I always take a round of the house every night to see that all is right before I go to bed; and last night, as I was passing the state-room, what should I see but a light shining under the door. 'Oh,' says I, this will never do. I'll engage this townagent made a baste of himself with the whiskey-punch, and tumbled into bed without quenching his candle; ('twas a tallow-dip too, by the same token, that Kitty gave him,) and I'm afeard of my life the snuff will fall over and set fire to the place. So in I went, and there was my gentleman lying quite quiet, fast asleep, and the candle burning away. I outed it and carried it off, and shut the door asy, right glad that I chanced to go in." Mrs. Hickson gave a hearty laugh, and then, to nurse's immeasurable delight, described the mental sufferings which had been so unconsciously inflicted on the unlucky agent. Such was the dénouement of Mr. Murphy's ghost story; and somewhat similar, I believe, would be the true explanation of all the so-called "well-attested narratives of apparitions" on record. After a few years, the Hicksons' mansion was rebuilt, and the "old mistress's room" became classed among the things that "have been and are not." But to the end of nurse Mahoney's life she took the utmost pride and pleasure in telling "how she frightened the agent, and made him as good as swear that her brown merino was a red satin, and that the old slippers that the mistress gave her were a pair of high-heeled shoes!" AULD ELSPA'S SOLILOQUY. There's twa moons the nicht, Quoth the auld wife tae hersel', There's twa moons the nicht, An' watery dae the glower, An' they're aye spark, sparkin O, I'm unco late the nicht, By this time's black an' cauld; I never like tae see twa moons; ANDREW PARK. MY WALK TO "THE OFFICE." No. 2. The Desert and the City.-The Old House in Westminster.Mary May. By some little effort of the imagination, and with the assistance of my respectable travelling friends alluded to in p. 84, No. 32, we may perhaps partially enter into the sensations experienced by a wayfarer, alone, deserted, and with no help at hand, toiling still on and on in the middle of the Great Desert. We can see depicted, as in a glass, the interminable waste of waterless sand, and almost feel the annihilating rays of the burning sun,-we can fancy too, as time and hope pass on, the starting bloodshot eyeballs, now turned upward to the fire-red sky in imploring supplication for relief; now piercing into the dim distance, in hopeless search for that which will not, cannot come. We can, in the mind's eye, distinguish the just parted lips attempting utterance of a prayer the parched and swollen tongue refuses to pour forth, the while, in that lonely solitude, the incidents of years and the busy world are passing through the heated brain of that lone wanderer; and the heart uplifts its silent cry in throbs of anguish which ascend to that high throne, where voice alone would ever fail to reach. And anon we can discern the tottering steps becoming more feeble, as the limbs, grown powerless and stiff, refuse to bear their almost lifeless burden on its dismal way, and then, while crouching to the earth, and biting the dust in madness and the death pang agony, the wild birds swoop in circles smaller, and still less, to watch the passage of the fleeting spark, to feast upon the remnant of what was once a man; as for the rest, that is beyond their reachthe spirit has fled to its kindred light, and it is free! Now in such a position what must be the intensity, the awfully oppressive weight of such feelings of utter loneliness. But far, far across that desert land, on, on beyond the line where earth and the etherial heavens seem to meet (would that they did!); still on, across mountains and through vales, traversing mighty pathless seas, and passing such wondrous specimens of nature's work, that the highest aims of man are lost beside them, and then you may fall upon a Babel of a city, where languages innumerable are spoken, yet called withal the mother tongue; where words indeed are spelt alike, or should be, but their sense varying with the interpretation each man's heart may put upon them. Talk to yon hard visaged passer-by of charity, and of the mercy which droppeth as a dew from heaven, and you speak an unknown tongue; recount to yon wan and crippled half-idiot, half-knave begging in the streets, the joys of life procurable to man by honest work, and speak to him Chaldaic, he will understand it every bit as well; or stay the hand of yonder ragged little thief, and tell him of the horrors attendant upon crime, the worth and honour of an honest man; well, tell him this, and he may stare a cunning, leering, "knowing" stare, which plainly says how great a fool he thinks you are. Or, even once again, take that somewhat respectable, plodding old gentleman standing at his own shop-door, and tell him of the riches literature can boast; of the works of art ennobling all mankind; of genius and its offspring, elevating the minds of men, and leading them on to something spiritual and godlike,— something immortal and sublime, and he may think it all very pretty, and he dare say it is, for he would not contradict your scholarship's word; but he knows nothing about it, and he would feel obliged by your informing him how hog's bristles are in the market, for he does a little in that way, being in the brush line. Well, then, I say, in this very Babel of a city, are creatures traversing life's path more lonely, more desolate, than that desert wanderer, who do not mercifully die, as he did, but, wish to heaven they could. I hardly recollect at the moment whether my breakfast had been of a very indigestible character that particular morning, but I do remember, if not the very words, still the substance of the above, running heavily like a drayhorse through my brain, as with my gaze cast downwards towards the pavement, I was trudging at my usual pace to "the office;" when a light-hearted musical voice suddenly aroused me with a pleasant "Good morning to you, Sir." I looked round, and it was my old acquaintance Mary May. But this was by no means our first time of meeting, and so that the patient reader may know something more about her, let him collect his faculties, and listen to the following "short, true, but particular account.' Some years ago stood, as also, in fact, at the present time stands, in a certain street in Westminster, a house let off in tenements, much loftier than its neighbours on either side, and though now, as then, in a miserable condition, from the habits of the inhabitants and the utter ignorance in which it is kept of such compositions as paint, whitewash, or soap and water, still bears proofs, both in outward style and inward ornament of its having once upon a time been far more kindly cared for. Now, although I am by no means prepared to prove that things inanimate have any means whereby to make their grievances known, still I cannot forbear remarking, that the stairs of that house went a long way to prove some such existence on their part, for creaking of such an eloquent, expressive character it was never my fortune to listen to before or since,-could it but once reach their owner's ears, I am sure they would not plead in vain. Well, it must be full ten years ago now, on a stormy winter's night, while the rain was beating in through the numerous chinks and crevices of the little back attic of that same house, the darkness made palpable as it were to the sense of touch by the faint glimmering of a rushlight, whose tiny flame was flickering in constant danger of being extinguished by the boisterous wind that came moaning through the desolate apartment. Ay, 'twas a rough night," and terrific was the battle of the elements without, but there was a scene then passing within that little miserable corner of the house, which made one cease to think of that, and pause the while one looked in wonderment and almost awe on this. 66 Lying on a frame of wood-work, covered with just so much of furniture as might dignify it by the term of bed, was a poor, wan, miserable-looking woman, not old in years, though deep furrows marked her cheeks and forehead; neither were the traces of some early beauty altogether indiscernible, albeit the cold clammy sweat of death was on her brow. On the edge of the bed was sitting, or rather reclining, a girl about seventeen, almost as pale as the mother that lay beside her; and in her anxious look one might read the tender love, the wondering dread, and the efforts that her nature made to bear her up through this long night of trial. Clasping the poor woman's hand in hers, she leant her face down to her parent's cheek, to catch any whispered word of parting love, as also, even while she trembled, to watch the growing coldness of her mother's lips. Mary," murmured the poor woman, as, with feeble effort, she grasped her daughter's hand more tightly,— "Mary, dear, you'll mind what I say, love, and not forget it. I know you may have to fight for it, to struggle for it, to starve for it, perhaps to die for it," and an expression something like a smile passed over her face as she continued, "but, my dear girl, let all your efforts be to keep your conscience clear." The poor girl could not speak, for her tears flowed fast, and her whole frame trembled from the very energy with which she vowed to keep in never-fading green those words. "You will promise me, Mary," resumed the mother; "I know you will; you have been a good girl, and a comfort to me in life; so promise me this, dear, and you will be a comfort to me in "Yes, dear mother," sobbed the crying girl, and staying the dreaded word. "I will strive; I will work ; I will be honest; I will keep my conscience clear." "Bless you," returned the mother, "I know you will; and may God give you strength to do it." And there, locked in each other's embrace, did those poor creatures lie, now and then murmuring words of comfort each to the other, till at last the mother spoke again. Mary, dear, the rushlight's going out; in the corner is a wee bit more; put it up, love-its getting very, very dark." The light was still glimmering as brightly as it had ever done, but mechanically the poor girl sought the "wee bit" of candle, and placed it in a bottle, the rushlight occupying the place of honour in the broken candlestick; this done, she returned to her post of vigil, but there, alas! she was not needed now-her mother was dead! and Mary May was left alone. Long did the poor girl sit on the edge of that miserable bed, utterly unconscious of anything but the one great fact just passed; and then at length a sense of the necessity of action crossed her mind, and she trembled at the idea, that again she must go forth, again fight the fight that willing industry so often has to battle with, and get in return-a crust, perhaps accompanied with harsh words, cruel insults, and cold sneers at her "propriety;" ay, many's the poor girl who would have toiled on and on in virtuous, honest labour, were she but left to her native modesty, and not tainted, hardened, and made |