It is not, it cannot be possible for a writer to depict with anything like adequate force all the misery to be witnessed in the home of a drunkard. Mr. J. B. Gough, the temperance orator, has said that there was no power on earth that tended so much to the degradation and ruin of young men, morally, physically, spiritually, religiously, and he might say financially, as drink. “I have held the hands of dying men in mine,” says the orator; “I have laid my hand upon the burning foreheads, and moistened the dry lips of many drunkards, while I have heard such stories as have made my heart ache and my eyes stream with tears. They were wrecks of men of genius――men of education――men of power――men that might have made their mark in the world, going out――oh, so fearfully――into the blackness, and darkness and hopelessness, of the awful future.” The great poetical genius of America――Edgar Allan Poe――gasped out a life the world could ill spare in the agonies of a drunken debauch. Robert Greene, worn out with debauchery and completely shattered with diseases which were a consequence of his ill-guided indulgences, was carried off, it is said, by a surfeit of red herrings. There is no sadder book in literature than his dying homily, “A groat’s worth of wit bought with a million of repentance.” Poor Lee, the author of the “Rival Queens,” died like a dog. He had, it has been said, carousing with a party of friends, none of whom had the grace to see him home. In the morning he was found dead in the streets, which were covered with snow. A dray had passed over his body, whether before death or after is not certain. Hundreds, nay thousands, of other instances could be cited of the fatal effects of intemperance. But the evil is not confined to a class. It is widespread, and saps and undermines the moral principle of the working classes of this country to an extent which is almost incalculable. Bristow furnishes us with a sad example of this pernicious and fatal propensity. He had become an incorrigible and irreclaimable inebriate. He returned after a debauch of some hours’ duration to his miserable lodgings at Bradford. He had spent what little money he had about him. This it was that caused him to leave the pot-house and bend his steps homewards. As a rule he seldom came back till past midnight. His industrious little wife, who worked for the trade, was plying her needle and thread when her husband entered. “What, John!” she ejaculated, in a tone of surprise; “you’re early.” “Am I?” he ejaculated, flinging himself into a chair. “S’pose I am――what of that? I’m not wanted――is that it?” It was very evident from his tone of voice, as well as his manner, that he was in a quarrelsome mood. His wife made no reply, but kept on with her work. “You’re a deal too good for me――you are,” he muttered. “Pity you threw yourself away upon me.” Still no reply. “D’yer hear what I am sayin’?” shouted out the ruffian, in a louder tone. “Of course I do.”