A lecture on this subject was delivered on Tuesday evening, to the members of the Ladies’ Needle and Thimble Association, by the Rev. James Sleek, curate of St. Enock’s-in-the-Mist.  After adverting to the plagues of Egypt, the learned lecturer dwelt at length upon the plagues of the present day, which he classed under the following heads:  —­Servants, poor relations, borrowers, teetotallars, tobacco-smokers, and children in arms.  To counteract these evils were such associations as the one he had the honor to address, select tea meetings, fancy bazaars, and perambulators.  The lecture gave great satisfaction.

End o’ th’ Year

It’s a long loin ‘at’s niver a turn, an’ th’ longest loin ends somewhear.  Ther’s a end to mooast things, an’ this is th’ end o’ the year.  When a chap gets turned o’ forty, years dooant seem as long as once they did—­he begins to be feeared o’ time rolling on—­but it’s fooilish, for it nawther gooas faster nor slower nor iver it did.  But he’s a happy chap ‘at, when th’ year ends, can luk back an’ think ha mich gooid he’s done, for it isn’t what a chap will do for th’ futer, its what he has done i’th’ past ’at fowk mun judge by.  Its net wise for onybody to booast o’ what they mean to do in a month’s time, becoss we cannot tell what a month’s time may do for us.  We can hardly help havin’ a gloomy thowt or two at this part o’th’ year, but Kursmiss comes to cheer us up a bit, an’ he’s nooan ov a gooid sooart ‘at can’t be jolly once i’th’ year.  As an owd friend o’ mine has cliverly said:—­

   Come let us choose the better part,
      And sing whilst life is given;
   A cheerful and contented heart
      Gives no offence to Heaven.

   ’Tis Christmas time, then fill the horn,
      Away with melancholy,
   If there’s no leaves upon the thorn,
      There is upon the holly.

Hi! varry true!  When ther’s no leaves upon th’ thorn, they’re green upon the holly.  Ther’s allus summat to be thankful for if we seek it aat—­ther’s sure to be a bit o’ sunshine somewhere—­an’ its a varry bad case if a chap can’t find consolation aat o’ summat.

Aw remember a case ov a woman deein’ ‘at aw knew, an’ aw met th’ husband lukkin’ varry glum a bit at after.  “Well Joa,” aw said, “tha’s had a heavy loss, lad.”  “Eea, aw have,” an’ then after studdyin’ a bit, he said, “but aw should ha had to ha bowt a new suit afoor long, an’ aw mud as weel buy black as any other color; it wod ha been awkerd if aw’d just getten a white hat, as aw thowt on—­but Providence! orders all things for th’ best.”

Ther’s noa daat a gooid lot on us find consolation aat o’th’ Kursmiss jollification—­its just a bit ov a sweetener afoor all th’ nooats begin o’ commin’ in; aw dooant mean five paand nooats, ther’s nooan monny o’ them stirrin’.  It’s th’ coil nooats, an’ gas nooats, an’ tax papers, them’s th’ sooart at’s stirrin abaat this time.