The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw aside an old wire that served as a poker, and demanded payment in advance.  The child handed him the three cents, received his rum and crackers, and left.

Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do so no longer; for, persisting in his opinion that brandy could not hurt him, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, and his company was soon discarded.

Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, although the one drank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed between them.

He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased four shillings’ worth of brandy, commenced business in the cellar we have alluded to, replenishing his stock by daily applying to a neighboring pump; and, for every gill of brandy he drew from the tap, poured a gill of water in at the bung, and thus kept up a stock in trade.

In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily at his place, and Dago Pump could see no difference between his respectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, being owner of thousands, fitted up “oyster saloons,” which places had suddenly sprung up in all large cities.

Edward had fallen; he had become what was termed a “common drunkard.”  His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated; she begged him to reform.  She prayed to Heaven for its aid; yet week passed week, month followed month, on Time’s unending course, and she was a drunkard’s wife still.  All friends had forsaken her.  Friends! shall we call them such?  No; they did not deserve the name.  Their friendship only had an existence when fortune smiled; when a frown mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled.  Yet God was raising up friends for her, and from a class of society from whom she little expected aid.  God was working, in his mysterious way, a deliverance.  He had heard the prayers that for many long years had gone up to his throne from thousands of wretched families; and, moved to pity, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy.

Othro Treves-where is he?  Not in that elegant store; it long since passed into other hands.  Has he made his fortune, and retired?  Such we might suppose to be the case, did we not know that he trusted to moderate drinking.  Man might as well trust a leaky vessel to bear him across the ocean, as to trust that.

The clock struck twelve.

“’T is midnight,” said a female voice, “and he has not come.  God send repentance to his heart!  Hope has almost failed me; yet I will hope on.”

“Another glass of brandy for me,” said a man, addressing Mr. Dago Pump.

“And rum for me,” said another.

“Gin with a hot poker in it for me,” said the third; and Mr. Pump poured out the poisons.

Half a dozen men stood in front of some rough boards that served as a “bar.”

One of these-a tall, well-formed man-gazed fixedly upon the glasses, seemingly in deep thought.