Temperance League,” with an elaborate painted border, composed of garlands of flowers. The royal gallery, and the smaller one opposite, was covered with scarlet cloth, on which were arranged rose-coloured panels, with the words, “London Temperance League,” in silver letters. The front of the platform and the reporters’ box was also decorated in a similar manner. At the end of the royal gallery was fixed a large royal standard, the folds of which hung gracefully over the heads of the audience. Under the royal standard was placed the union-jack. At the end of the opposite gallery proudly waved the banner of the great Republic of the West. The platform was decorated with flags, bearing inscriptions of various kinds. Like the stars in the heavens, or the sands on the sea shore, they were innumerable. In front of the organ were arranged the choir of the Temperance Societies, and on the floor of the platform were placed the Shapcott family, with their Sax-horns. Why was all this preparation made? For what purpose that living multitude of warm hearts? The answer is soon given. Some twenty-four years back a poor lad, without money and learning—almost without friends—was shipped off to America, to try his fortune in the New World. Arrived there, the lad became a man, lived by the sweat of his brow, learned to drink, to be a boon companion, and fell as most fall; for there is that in the flowing bowl and the wine when it is red, which few can withstand. Friends left him; he became an outcast and a wanderer; he sank lower and lower; he walked in rags; he loathed life; his frame became emaciated with disease; there was none to pity or to save. It seemed for that man there was nothing left but to lie down and die. However, whilst there is life there is hope. That man, in his degradation and despair, was reached; he signed the Temperance pledge; he became an advocate of the Temperance cause. His words were words of power; they touched men’s hearts, they fired men’s souls. He led the life of an apostle; wherever he went the drunkard was reclaimed; zeal was excited, the spell of the sparkling cup was gone, humanity was saved, and now he had returned for awhile to his native land to advocate the cause which had been a salvation to his own soul and life, and these men and women—these hopeful youths—these tender-hearted maidens—have come to give him welcome. Already every eye in that vast assembly is turned to the quarter whence it is expected the hero of the night will appear. At length the appointed hour arrives, a band of Temperance reformers move towards the platform, with the flags of Britain and America waving, as we trust they may long do, harmoniously together. Familiar faces are seen—Cruikshank—Buckingham—Cassell; but there is one form, apparently a stranger; it is John B. Gough. A few words from Mr. Buckingham, who presides, and the stranger comes forward; but he is no stranger, for the