"I see no harm in a social glass with a friend," cries one. "Let cold-water-fanatics preach until doomsday and hurl their anathemas against inebriates," exclaims another, "but they never shall prevent me from taking my occasional glass." "Nor I," says a third. "An occasional glass with a companion is the very life-spring of social nature. It assimilates one mind with another. It dispels sadness, and invigorates both soul and body. It opens up the fountains of the heart, and joy gushes out, sparkling with wit and melody. Wherefore then should I deprive myself of those blessings, on purpose to gratify the whims of some cold-water quack? Wherefore then should I bind my liberties with a pledge as a safe-guard to prevent me from becoming a drunkard? If other men have been foolish enough to allow themselves to become drunkards by abusing one of the precious gifts of nature, is that sufficient reason that I should not drink? I think not. I am no drunkard, nor shall I become one; therefore I will do as I please with my own liberty and independence." Such is indeed the false philosophy of too many moderate drinkers. No man is a confirmed drunkard at once. It is by degrees that men generally become inebriates. "Take but a glass," says the recruiting sergeant of Bacchus, "it will do you no harm." But one glass is but the starting point. It is the magnet that attracts material akin to itself. What a world of degradation has been generated by this nucleus of intemperance. Intoxicating liquor is indeed the most prolific source of wretchedness and crime. It has been and still is the greatest curse to humanity. It is the curse of curses. The grave is filled with its wrecks. The fire of hell is fed by its fuel. Millions upon millions of human beings has it hurled down to the blackest regions of eternity. How daring then must that man be;--how utterly lost to every principle of morality, who would hazard an assertion in favor of intoxicating drinks as a source of benefit to mankind. The universal evidence of all ages would be against him. The horrid shrieks of suffering humanity would denounce his arguments. Millions of grinning skeletons, blackened with every crime (if permitted) would startle forth from their infernal dungeons; and in myriads of drunkards' graves the rattling of dry bones would be heard: Yea, even hell, its very self, bloated with the souls of inebriates, would groan with indignation. Nay, call it not happiness that sparkles in the eye of the rum-drinker and softens his heart and tongue into kindred sympathy with each other. Happiness arises not from the flickerings of the brain when heated by the reeking fumes of the liquor glass. Nor does it arise from the fervid impulses of the heart when excited by the steaming vapors of the rum bowl. Neither does it exist in the fluctuating feelings of animal nature when stimulated into action by the demon-spirit of the brandy bottle. Nor does happiness consist in the