into it, and irritated through its quick sympathy with the stomach; oppressed, also, by the powerful pulsation of the larger arteries about the head, becomes, in a degree, paralyzed.  The tongue moves with difficulty, and loses the power of distinct articulation; the limbs become enfeebled and unsteady; the mind is deranged, being either worked up into fury, or reduced to ridiculous puerility, and if the stimulus be pushed farther than this, absolute insensibility ensues.  Such is a brief view of the physical progress of a debauch; and it is needless to point out the effect of all this mischief upon the frame which is subjected to it.[1]

Although we have thus seen that fermented liquors, if taken to excess, become pernicious in their effect, we must not condemn their use, because their abuse is bad.  Why should we act and feel as if this bountiful world, brilliant in beauty and overflowing with blessings, was a collection of steel traps and spring guns, set to catch the body and shoot the soul?  Is it not much better and wiser to avail ourselves of the many blessings which Providence has placed before us, than to set ourselves to work to detect poison in our drink, and God knows what in our meat?  It savours of learning, doubtless, to do all this; but cui bono? where is the real utility which it produces?  Our grandfathers and their progenitors were well convinced that a good cup of “sherris-sack” comforted the heart, and aided digestion; and why the same opinion should not govern us, I must leave to the dieteticians to decide.

The moderate use of wine and of malt liquors is exceedingly grateful to our feelings, and abundantly beneficial to our constitution; but ardent spirits are found to be so pernicious to most constitutions, and especially to those:  of the inhabitants of crowded towns and cities, that, excepting under peculiar circumstances, it is better to discard them altogether.  A glass or two of good wine can never do any harm; neither can a cup of good, genuine, “humming ale.”  The chemists tell us that the London ale is a horrid and narcotic compound; and so, in truth, by far the largest portion of it is.  But there are two or three honest men in the metropolis, who sell genuine Kennet, Nottingham, and Scotch ales, from whom it is very easy to procure it quite pure.  If, however, malt liquor does not agree with the stomach, or what is the same thing, is supposed not to agree, it is a very easy matter to substitute wine for it.

A word or two, here, with regard to genuine ale.  Half of what is sold under the name of Scotch, Kennet, &c. is manufactured at Bromley, or elsewhere, according to prescriptions adapted to the peculiarities of each kind.  This, perhaps, is nothing very enormous; but the publicans “doctor” their beer, after it has left the brewhouse, in a manner that calls loudly for reprehension.  Salt of tartar, carbonate of soda, oil of vitriol, and green copperas