horses, and be locked up in watch houses, be a drunkard; and it will be strange if you do not succeed.
Finally, if you are determined to be utterly destroyed in estate, body, and soul, be a drunkard; and you will soon know that it is impossible to adopt a more effectual means to accomplish your—end.
Drunkenness expels reason— drowns the memory— defaces beauty— diminishes strength— inflames the blood— causes internal, external, and incurable wounds—is a witch to the senses, a devil to the soul, a thief to the purse—the beggars companion, a wife’s woe, and children’s sorrow—makes a strong man weak, and a wise man a fool. He is worse than a beast, and is a self-murderer, who drinks to other’s good health, and robs himself of his own.
THE SMUGGLERS.
A TALE.
On the coast of Sussex there is a little village which is almost secluded from the observation of the world, and which is at a sufficient distance from the sea to bear the ordinary character of inland scenery. It consists of a few scattered houses, and one or two little farms;— its inhabitants are principally agricultural labourers;— it has its small parish-church and its green and leafy burial place; and a very humble cottage, with an uncouth and half-obliterated sign, affords sufficient refreshment to the contented peasants. On a neighbouring hill stands an old-fashioned windmill;— and from this
