think that such was he once, so inconsistent, so canting, so deluded a stumbling-block to all progress, a spectacle of inane self-assurance and blundering paradox to the angels of God. In truth, Charles became very paradoxical as well as very zealous, and he used to say, a man might or might not become a drunkard in the old sense of the word-it was a matter to speculate about, and to bet on, with the odds heavy against the man; but the mischief was done, so soon as a man could drink and set himself to justify his deed. The tempest had ceased to lour-it had burst. Time might swell the furious flood ;-accident might direct its course so as to ensure visible ruin, but, whether or not, the mischief was done. The man's moral nature, his conscience, judgment, heart, stood out shelterless in the rainy blast; already had the ceaseless flashes smitten him numb and blind. So long as the taster disliked, dreaded, hated and repented of his sip, there was some faint chance for the restoration of his moral powers to their former soundness; the shame-brand was indeed the only reason for hope, but it was welcome as the one star in so much blackness. But when men drink and say there is no harm, no wrong, to God and man, even that one hope is clouded; and when they really see, as they have too soon said they saw, no evil in moderation-there is no hope left from beneath or from within. The oracle of God is henceforth silent, for its inspirations have been quenched and its plain warnings derided. If the abandoned one should perchance become a drunkard or a murderer, no sane man can feel any surprise; they only, who by bereavement of sound sense, are themselves in constant danger of the like outward show of their inward actual shame, affect—nay, they do feel (so quick is the wasting progress of corruption) surprise; and say who would have thought it? Charles might, in his sensible days, be a little paradoxical, and disposed to take odd and extreme views, but he did confess that his feelings were those of a physician who felt sleepless alarm through all stages of a patient's fever; but when all was over, ceased to care anything about it-left the corpse to be laid out as others might choose, to be galvanized by quacks, or scorched by hot hand-irons, or soused in ice-water, or anything

else. For his part, he had forgotten all about the case, and the corpse was nothing to him. So Mr. Charles expressed himself on more occasions than one; and it is supposed he meant what he said. Paradoxical? It might be-but it all depends on with what eyes, and from what point you look at such things. It may be that an abstainer is the only competent judge, and then, if such be the general decision of abstainers, there is no appeal. If there were no abstainers, there would be no difficulty, we imagine, in seeing the force of this principle: "That he who is least drunk is best able to tell how drunk his companions, severally, are.'

To wit

Two apprentices have been out for a lark, because their old master has been out on business. They bring home with them-and take up stairs, to their little den in the attic-a small bottle of unadulterated British Hollands. In the silence of advancing night, with the sweet relish of secresy they swallow painfully small thimble-fulls of the real genuine article; anon, the dread voice of authority bids them "below there," to look for the day-book which is missing. "Do I look queer about the eyes, Bill ?"—"No, not a bit, do I?— I feel all right." "Can you smell my breath ?"-"Not a bit -chew a peppermint-drop-here-there's two." Now the next question of importance is-How has the worthy authority "below" been spending the evening? If he has been having ever so slight a spell at the same reputable business as that just interrupted-happy are those youths! If, however, his share of the comforts of life is yet untouched (even though his stomach craves)—the absolute certainty is, that to the master's eye these hapless boys will look drunk, and to his unvitiated nose 'these boys will smell drunk, and the unparched tongue which bellowed for them down stairs will curse them back again to their now prison-like retreat, as a couple of drunken villains. It all depends, you see! So did it use to be with the worthy baronet Sir Ethelred. More than once, as he sat on the bench, fresh from luxuriant French coffee, French rolls, and no French brandy-(as he was not going to hunt)-had he found occasion to reprove, in no set phrase, the villanous stench of morning three-penn'orths--had even been moved, by a sense of duty to his sovereign, to

convict one scoundrel who had drunk enough over-night to find all his pump applications futile, and who still looked, smelt, and spoke as one far in liquor. How fortunate for that hapless one, too, would it have been if the petty sessions had been held after the worthy baronet's dinner; say in the interval of the second and third bottle. Then, doubtless, his worship would have been ready to outface all attesting constables, and to declare on his honour as a gentleman that the man was perfectly sober and was giving his evidence in a very cr-cr-creditable manner. Or, if such a thing could have been in those ancient days, suppose his worship had been photographed, say about that same time-the second-third stage, and if the result had been brought before him after breakfast any morning (not a hunt day), who can doubt that a fine sense of English honour would have led him instantly to sentence the picture to the tread-mill.

It all depends, you see, on how you look at a thing. There surely is no occasion to support this well-known fact by reminding the moderate man how often he himself has been insulted (and, as he thinks, grievously misapprehended) by would-be friends, who have winked at him, nodded mysteriously, trodden slily on his toes, and urged him that "he had better come along home; do now, there's a good fellow; nobody says you are drunk, and nobody shall-come along." Such officiousness on the part of one's companions, who, to the eye of a third party, might appear as muddy as oneself is miry, is too poignant and too well remembered to require any hint from a book to call it up. But bethink you, friend, how must you stand in the esteem of one who never drinks —who can smell you (though you have had only one glass of hot brandy-and-water), six carriages off in the night-mail, or says he can-whose stomach turns at the smell of the first word you utter to him, however sweet that word may bewhose clear, sound, healthy heart can make but slight distinction morally, between you and the battered carcase of your neighbour as it passes on a stretcher to the lock-up or infirmary. Bethink you of this, as you recall, with some slight disposition to forgive, the officious rebukes of the comparatively sober; for these men, now, thank God! at every

street corner, and in every train, are positively sober; how harsh, then, must be their judgment, if they simply judge as truly in proportion, as your boon companions are in the habit of judging of you. Paradoxical, then, it may appear to some, but to Charles Barton it was plain truth, that the vast evil which he saw everywhere around him, when his eyes were opened, and from which the bitterness of his own lot had so greatly sprung-lay in the use rather than in the abuse of alcoholic mixtures; the two words were identical in meaning with him, and hence it arose that when he did shake off the chains of his long slavery, it was with revolutionary ardour that he embraced the new freedom.

CHAPTER VII.

LOST LOVE.

THE round of Charles's daily life was gradually smoothed into sameness, and when the narrow circle of pleasures began to pall, and, at the same time, the habits of life through which they had been sought had become fixed, there remained no alternative from entire change, which just then seemed wholly out of question, and a more constant addition to stimulants by which the faded excitements of society might be furbished anew. During the few remaining weeks of the year, there was a succession of visitings, and sporting, drinking, gambling, hunting, coursing; each exciting enough when novel, but from their very nature requiring foreign stimulus, and rapidly becoming mere occasions for indulgence in the one ruling vice. He was still the admired of those who had any powers of admiration left; but he found in this also a weariness, and it sickened him when he found that it led to nothing-that it could not keep pace with his appetite for distinction-that it was on the other part quite as much the gratification of an idle self-indulgence as any tribute to his superior worth. Even this faint praise was denied him for anything he did, or said, or projected, in ordinary and sober moods. He knew that only as he reflected the ruby flash of the wine-cup, would fair

eyes sparkle in answer to his wit, or some few noble hearts respond with wondering gratitude to his high and generous sentiments, or stout arms flourish high the wild hurrah for Queen and country-the Queen whose name he profaned with his polluted breath, and the country that he robbed of its right to her son's best service by his sensual indulgence. To the wine-cup, however, he must now more than ever recur. Not only was his heart intolerably dull, but his mind was asleep, and his conversation pitifully feeble, apart from the exhilarating spirit.

Of late his dear wife had gladly found an excuse for absence from these tiresome convivialities, in her personal health. She was truly disappointed when she saw the spiritual and intellectual nakedness of the land whose Goshen and Eschol had sent such flattering first-fruits. Naturally her thoughts were weaned from the heartless gaiety, and came home to her heart, to watch, to pray, to waste themselves at times in vain queries, and vague wonder, and tremulous anxiety-then to rise up in all-confiding worship to the throne of helping love -to linger there in the heaven-world for hours-to grow sweet and delicate, and pure, by a Divine communion, only to render her indifferent indeed as to her own future, but doubly fearful for her Charles-her beloved-her truant brother, lord, friend, and husband-and for the unborn. And had the shadow of that hospital scene crept so close to home that she could discern it, and was shivering in its cold gloom? No, not quite; but there was a painful sense of loneliness and loss now that all other riches were useless, and one only treasure longed for the brave heart of a loving husband. She was lonely not in his frequent absence merely, but even more so in his presence, and the loss left a void which made her shriek in her dreams, as she thought she was gazing into blank space.

His love had gone; the fungus-growth had covered it, and in silent darkness it had swiftly eaten the life out. Selfishness unchecked was, at the best of times, that which gave most semblance of earnest reality to his passion. The desire for self-exaltation in bis wife's judgment was enough to explain every effort he had made which tended to her