It is in order that there may be no temptation in our title to wander from these guiding themes on the first occasion of our meeting, that we have selected as our subject "Good news from When asked concerning my first title by a friend the other day, when I mentioned what it was, he asked me if I meant to sing the song after the fashion of the Christy's Minstrels; but as there are ten of those sable votaries of song, and as I only represent one, and that a very bad musician, I think it would be ten to one that I spoilt the melody if I were to try. I am a little unfortunate, I must confess, in stumbling upon subjects with which I have no personal concern. Now the subject before me is a case in point. The greater portion of my friends present have homes of some kind, from which, and concerning which, it is possible for them to receive intelligence. Now, as for me, it is impossible for me to receive any news from home-good, bad, or indifferent-for this simple and conclusive reason, that I have no home to receive it from. The best news from home which I could possibly receive would be the news that I had a home at all.

But I am afraid there are a great many men present concerning whose homes but little good news could be collected. They are inhabitants of tenements; they are recognised citizens, ratepayers, and all the rest of it. They have the high municipal privilege of voting whether Tweedledum or Tweedledee shall be elevated to the City Council. Theirs is the lofty prerogative of getting purple in the face at ward meetings, in denunciation of one candidate because he is a maltster, and in praise of another because he is something else. 'Tis theirs to cry "Down with Muggins," and "Up with Styles." In short, it is theirs, as citizens and ratepayers, to enjoy and to uphold the birthrights of the British householder, namely, the right to become periodically apoplectic in the name of civil and religious liberty; and in the sacred cause of some aspiring cheesemonger, whose ambitious eye has rested upon the council bench-as Cæsar's did on Albion's shores--to pour forth libations of patriotic perspiration

at the hallowed shrine of human freedom. But with all these privileges, and the high social position which they bespeak, it is to be feared that in many cases the home which entitles them to these honours is not always the happiest place in the world. If you call at a working man's house during the hours of the day, you are neither surprised nor displeased to hear he is from home. On the contrary you would not regard it as the very best of signs if you should find him lounging in his shirt sleeves before the fire at eleven or twelve o'clock in the day. You would much rather be informed, in answer to your enquiry, that the master was at the mill, or up at the workshop, or in some way occupied with business, than find him whistling about the house, getting in his wife's way when she was about her household work, and setting his children an example of idleness and sloth. But even supposing he is out, and about his business, you may generally form a pretty correct guess what time he will come back by a glance at the children or the wife. If they are neat in dress, and cheerful and contented in appearance, you may rest assured that the leaving-off bell will not have rung very long before his footstep will be heard at the door, and his heavy tread will sound upon the hearth. But if the wife looks thin and sorrowful-if the youngsters are dirty, and look keen-eyed and hungry, you may take it for granted that there is an uncertainty about the husband's movements, which shows that he expects no preparation for him to be made at home, and cares not for any pleasant greeting from his own flesh and blood. You may come to the conclusion that it will be well nigh midnight before he is seen; in short, that he makes his home elsewhere, and only lodges now and then at the place which is called his home. He uses the house to stow away his wife and children, and such like useless lumber; but he has some other house of call where he comes out in high feather, and blossoms as a lord of the creation.

Where can he be? Nine, ten, eleven, twelve o'clock have struck, and he has not come home. The wife shows no symptoms

of surprise, no apprehension seems to shew itself about her face, but she waits patiently for his arrival, dozing, and often grieving the heavy hours away. Call at what hour you will, there's no one knows better where to find the truant than his wife, but there is no one knows better than she at the same time the folly and madness of disturbing him. She could, however, if she chose conduct you straight to his chosen retreat, and when the door of the tap-room was thrown open, and her lord and master sprung with a wild oath to his feet, her arm would instinctively be lifted, and her figure would mechanically shrink down purely from the force of habit, lest his salutation should be too affectionate. Once let the word drunkard be associated with a man's name, and there is an end of all true happiness, both for him and his, it is imposssible that there can be any good news from that man's home; the best news which could be heard of it would be this, that his wife and children had found a common grave before the little ones grew up to learn the vices of a drunken father. I have always felt it, and I feel it more and more every day I live, that drunkenness is at the root of nine-tenths of the misery arising out of human crime. Whatever we may think of the various measures used for the alleviation of this scourge, we cannot, and we dare not close our eyes to this crying fact. Every magistrate and judge concur in confirming it. Every constable and jailer in our city will tell us the same thing. The columns of every newspaper give their daily evidence of the horrid truth, and each day's observation of our city life rehearses to us the same sad tale. There's scarcely a vice which drags men to the dock, and fills the prison cells, which is not born from this prolific mother-crime, drunkenness. There is scarce a poor-house ward but it is crammed with squalid pauperism by the same. foul fiend. Each haunt of misery has drawn its woe from this It is the fountain-head of women's and of children's tears. It feeds on crushed affections and on outraged love; it battens on the offal of a banished joy, or the carrion of strangled hopes. Jail-birds replume their draggled wings by its infernal

one source.

aid. The voluptuary lives by it, and prostitution thrives upon it. Its stupefaction is the Lethe of the libertine, and the harlot's Elysium. Theft is performed by its hellish inspiration: and red-handed murder strikes its blow by its assistance. It is the architect of every gaol, the builder of each gibbet, the sail of every convict ship. It is the music of almost every maniac's howl, it is the cry of beggary, the cruel nail by which each pauper's rags were torn. It strides like a Destroying Angel, or rather a destroying demon, up and down, blasting the earth at every hoof-print, and sowing perdition's seeds upon the world's broad acres. It spits contemptuously upon each sanctuary door; drowns the vibrations of the Sabbath bell with hoarse-throated and derisive blasphemy; outlaughs with blatant scorn at the sound of the hymns of praising saints; and with its bloody brand effaces every tender household word which leavens the language and the intercourse of human life. It lays an assassin's clutch upon the throat of helpless infancy, and leaves its black and damning mark upon the breast of patient womanhood. It quenches the lustre of the dancing eye, tears down the blooming roses from the cheek, plucks the carnation from the wreathing lip, and strews, even in summer-time, the raven tress with an untimely frost. It writes widow where the word wife should be; orphan where the filial heart should beat; and on the battered portal of a ruined Home it may write Hell, for that is what its handy-work has made it now. O, Dr. Cumming Is this your dawning millennium ?-If so, then God speed 1867, and let the knell of drunkenness be rung!

It would indeed be good news from home if we could hear of the banishment of this vice. Will not some working-man now present be persuaded to resolve that such news shall be reported of his home, and that the first tidings we shall hear will be that the "Dragon," or "the Fox" has lost a customer, and that he finds his way to "the Angel" instead, by seeking his wife's society, and has another more favourite sign to resort to, to wit, "the Hen and Chickens," round the coop of home.

For my own part I can't quite see wherein would lie the sacrifice of such a change. You could'nt miss the music of the gin-shop, for the lungs of the baby will pretty effectually supply that deficiency in the vocal department; and young Harry's talented solo on the Jew's harp you bought him at Knott Mill Fair will be a decent substitute for the instrumental. It surely cannot be a sine qua non to your enjoyment that all the performers must be drunk; or even if it is, you need not be disappointed, for depend upon it the juveniles will be pretty well intoxicated with pleasure at having once more a sober father in their midst.

Possibly you may be inclined to say, you shall miss the pothouse society. What a terrible loss! Such pleasing, intelligent society! To be deprived of the forcible conversational remarks of Tom and Jerry, who never opened their mouths without an oath, must indeed be a sad deprivation. Then there is "mine host" himself, the jolly landlord, how can you part from him? Flesh and blood cannot bear such a harrowing separation. You have so long been a worshipper of his dirty apron and fat corporation that you cannot give up your idol now. And so you prefer this gouty, asthamatic, wheezing old Bacchus to a wife who loves you, and a group of children who would like to honour you if they could. You can part from them with no other sign than a surly grunt, but it would cost you a most heart-rending sigh to say farewell to old Nobs, the groggy landlord. Or, perhaps, you say, you could bid the landlord good bye very well, but you can't say adieu to his strong ale and cherry brandy. If you will but admit this, you will at least be honest; for there is very little truth, if any, in the nonsense we so often hear about men going to the public house for the sake of its sociality and its society. I don't believe it. They go there not so much because somebody else goes there, but because there is a good tap there. Good beer draws good company; but it is the beer which is the magnet and not the company. But now,

if you must have beer, don't you think it would be better to take it in moderation at home, than to swill it like a beast at an inn