But enough, enough. There can be no use in continuing this painful record. We would assure our readers, however, that we have only sketched a small portion of the unimagined misery which lately existed and still exists in the Old Brewery. The spectacles we have witnessed there excel the most extravagant flights of fancy; we have never read the book which contained pictures of such complete and hopeless misery. We have told a simple tale of truth, contributed our pittance, and it now remains for the opulent of the great metropolis and the rulers thereof to do their duty. Is it right that such a building as the Old Brewery should be suffered to exist within a stone’s throw of the City Hall? Is it right that the “hell hounds” (we now allude to a fact) should be permitted by the authorities to sell their poisons _under the same roof_ where hundreds of people are dying from starvation, brought upon them by their own folly and those very dram shops? We would not make an issue upon the license question; but, we ask, is it right, is it humane, to allow this state of things? If the aged in iniquity cannot be reclaimed, ought not something to be done to save the children of the Old Brewery—the innocent, laughter-loving children, from spending their days in misery? If nothing else can be done, it would be a mercy to fire that abode of suffering, even though every soul within its walls should perish in the flames; the wail of agony would indeed be dreadful, but it would be of short duration. Why will not the superb city of New York wipe from her bosom this lump of leprosy, which is now preying upon her vitals? Can the rich now understand why it is that the poor complain?