in the pulpit, I can actually see the people,
through the side windows of the building
(when the heat of the weather renders it
necessary to have them open), walking.  I
have, on some occasions, heard them laughing.
Whistling has reached my curate's ears
(he is an industrious and well-meaning young
man); but I cannot say I have heard it
myself. —   Is your church well frequented ?
No.  I have no reason to complain of the
Pew-portion of my flock, who are eminently
respectable; but, the Free Seats are comparatively
deserted: which is the more emphatically
deplorable, as there are not many of
them. —Is there a Railway near the church?
I regret to state that there is, and that I
hear the rush of the trains, even while I am
preaching.—Do you mean to say that they do
not slacken speed for your preaching?  Not in
the least. —Is there anything else near the
church, to which you would call the Committee's
attention? At the distance of a mile
and a half and three rods (for my clerk
has measured it by my direction), there is a
common public house with tea-gardens, called
The Glimpse of Green.  In fine weather these
gardens are filled with people on a Sunday
evening.  Frightful scenes take place there.
Pipes are smoked; liquors mixed with hot
water are drunk; shrimps are eaten; cockles
are consumed; tea is swilled; ginger-beer is
loudly exploded. Young women with their
young men; young men with their young
women; married people with their children;
baskets, bundles, little chaises, wicker-work
perambulators, every species of low abomination,
is to be observed there.  As the evening
closes in, they all come straggling home
together through the fields; and the vague
sounds of merry conversation which then
strike upon the ear, even at the further end
of my dining-room (eight-and-thirty feet by
twenty-seven), are most distressing.  I consider
The Glimpse of Green irreconcileable with
public morality.—Have you heard of
pick-pockets resorting to this place? I have.
My clerk informed me that his uncle's
brother-in-law, a marine store-dealer who
went there to observe the depravity of the
people, missed his pockethandkerchief when
he reached home. Local ribaldry has
represented him to be one of the persons who
had their pockets picked at St. Paul's Cathedral
on the last occasion when the Bishop of
London preached there.  I beg to deny this;
I know those individuals very well, and they
were people of condition.—Do the mass of
the inhabitants of your district work hard
all the week? I believe they do.—Early
and late? My curate reports so. —Are their
houses close and crowded?  I believe they
are. —Abolishing The Glimpse of Green, where
would you recommend them to go on a Sunday?
I should say to church.— Where after
church?  Really, that is their affair; not
mine.

Adamantine-hearted Baby, dissolve into
scalding tears at the sight of the next witness,
hanging his head and beating his breast.
He was one of the greatest drunkards in the
world, he tells you. When he was drunk, he
was a very demon—and he never was sober.
He never takes any strong drink now, and is
as an angel of light.  And because this man
never could use without abuse; and because
he imitated the Hyaena or other obscene
animal, in not knowing, in the ferocity of his
appetites, what  Moderation was; therefore,
O Big-headed Baby, you perceive that he
must become as a standard for you; and for
his backslidings you shall be put in the
corner evermore.

Ghost of John Bunyan, it is surely thou
who usherest into the Committee Room, the
volunteer testifier, Mr. Monomaniacal
Patriarch!  Baby, a finger in each eye, and
ashes from the nearest dustbin on your
wretched head, for it is all over with you now.
Mr. Monomaniacal Patriarch, have you paid
great attention to drunkenness?  Immense
attention, unspeakable attention.—For how
many years? Seventy years.—Mr.
Monomaniacal Patriarch, have you ever been in
Whitechapel? Millions of times.—Did you
ever shed tears over the scenes you have
witnessed there? Oceans of tears.—Mr.
Monomaniacal Patriarch, will you proceed
with your testimony? Yes; I am the only
man to be heard on the subject; I am the only
man who knows anything about it. No
connexion with any other establishment;
all others are impostors; I am the real
original. Other men are said  to have
looked into these places, and to have
worked to raise them out of the Slough
of Despond. Don't believe it. Nothing
is genuine unless signed by me. I am the
original fly with the little eye. Nobody ever
mourned over the miseries and vices of the
lowest of the low, but I.  Nobody has ever
been haunted by them, waking and sleeping,
but I.  Nobody would raise up the sunken
wretches, but I. Nobody understands how
to do it, but I.—Do you think the People
ever really want any beer or liquor to drink?
Certainly not. I know all about it, and I
know they don't.—Do you think they ever
ought to have any beer or liquor to drink?
Certainly not. I know all about it, and I
know they oughtn't.—Do you think they
could suffer any inconvenience from having
their beer and liquor entirely denied them?
Certainly not. I know all about it, and I
know they couldn't.

Thus, the Great Baby is dealt with from
the beginning to the end of the chapter.
It  is supposed equally by the Members and
by the Monomaniacs to be incapable of
putting This and That together, and of detecting
the arbitrary nonsense of these monstrous
deductions. That a whole people,—a domestic,
reasonable, considerate people, whose good
nature and good sense are the admiration of
intelligent foreigners, and who are no less