Poor Joe soon return'd, though his bacon was lost,
For the dog a good dinner had made at his cost.

When Joseph came back, he expected a sneer,
But the face of each collier spoke horror and fear;
What a narrow escape hast thou had, they all said,
The pit is fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead!

How sincere was the gratitude Joseph express'd!
How warm the compassion which glow'd in his breast!
Thus events great and small, if aright understood,
Will be found to be working together for good.

"When my meat," Joseph cried, "was just now stol'n away,

"And I had no prospect of eating to-day,

"How could it appear to a short-sighted sinner,

"That my life would be saved by the loss of my dinner?"

THE GIN SHOP:

OR,

A PEEP INTO A PRISON.

Look through the land from north to south,
And look from east to west,
And see what is to Englishmen
Of life the deadliest pest.

It is not want, though that is bad,
Nor war, though that is worse;
But Britons brave endure, alas!
A self-inflicted curse.

Go where you will, throughout the realm, You'll find the reigning sin,

In cities, villages, and towns,

-The monster's name is GIN.

The prince of darkness never sent
To man a deadlier foe;

"My name is Legion," it may say,
The source of many a woe.

Nor does the fiend alone deprive
The labourer of his wealth;
That is not all, it murders too
His honest name and health.

We say the times are grievous hard,
And hard they are, 'tis true,

But, drunkards, to your wives and babes
They're harder made by you.

The drunkard's tax is self-impos'd,
Like every other sin;

The taxes altogether lay

No weight so great as gin.

The state compels no man to drink,
Compels no man to game,

'Tis gin and gambling sink him down
To rags, and want, and shame.

The kindest husband, chang'd by gin,
Is for a tyrant known;

The tend'rest heart that nature made
Becomes a heart of stone.

In many a house the harmless babes
Are poorly cloth'd and fed,
Because the craving gin-shop takes
The children's daily bread.

Come, neighbour, take a walk with me,
Through many a London street,
And see the cause of penury

In hundreds we shall meet.

We shall not need to travei far-
Behold that great man's door,
He well discerns yon idle crew
From the deserving poor.

He will relieve with liberal hand
The child of honest thrift;

But where long scores at gin-shops stand,
He will withhold his gift.

Behold that shiv'ring female there,
Who plies her woful trade!
'Tis ten to one you'll find that gin,

That hopeless wretch has made.

Look down those steps, and view below Yon cellar under ground,

There ev'ry want and ev'ry wo,

And ev'ry sin is found.

Those little wretches trembling there,
With hunger and with cold,
Were, by their parents' love of gin,
To sin and misery sold.

Blest be those friends to human kind
Who take these wretches up,

Ere they have drunk the bitter dregs
Of their sad parents' cup.

Look through that prison's iron bars,
Look through that dismal grate,
And learn what dire misfortunes brought
So terrible a fate.

The debtor and the felon too,

Though differing much in sin,

Too oft you'll find were thither brought By all-destroying gin.

Yet Heaven forbid I should confound
Calamity with guilt!

Or name the debtor's lesser fault
With blood of brother spilt.

To prison dire misfortune oft
The guiltless debtor brings;
Yet oftener far it will be found
From gin the misery springs.

See the pale manufact'rer there,
How lank and lean he lies!
How haggard is his sickly cheek!
How dim his hollow eyes!

He plied the loom with good success,
His wages still were high,

Twice what the village lab'rer gains,
His master did supply.

No book-debts kept him from his cash,
All paid as soon as due ;

His wages on the Saturday
To fail he never knew.

* The Philanthropic Society.

How amply had his gains sufficed,
On wife and children spent!
But all must for his pleasure go,
All to the gin-shop went.

See that apprentice, young in years,
But hackney'd long in sin,

What made him rob his master's till?
Alas! 'twas love of gin.

That serving-man-I knew him once,
So jaunty, spruce, and smart!
Why did he steal, then pawn the plate?
'Twas gin ensnar'd his heart.

But, hark! what dismal sound was that? 'Tis Saint Sepulchre's bell!

It tolls, alas, for human guilt

Some malefactor's knell.

O! woful sound! O! what could cause

Such punishment and sin!

Hark! hear his words, he owns the cause-

Bad company and gin.

And when the future lot is fix'd,

Of darkness, fire, and chains,

How can the drunkard hope to 'scape

Those everlasting pains?

For if the murd'rer's doom'd to wo,

As holy writ declares,

The drunkard with self-murderers

That dreadful portion shares.