those who love its use and sale, and their anathemas for him, who is
striving to save a nation of drunkards from swift destruction; yea, their
own sires, sons, and brothers from the grave of the inebriate.

When in Rochester a short time since, soliciting subscribers for this
work, I stepped into a distillery and asked a man to subscribe for it. He
hesitated in his decision until he took a tumbler and filling it with
brandy, invited me to drink. I thanked him, saying I never drink brandy.
"Never drink!" he growled, "then I tell you, sir, that you stand a much
better chance of being struck by lightning than of getting a subscriber
here." Oh, very well; most likely had he agreed to take a copy, he would
have been sorely displeased with my views of the liquor traffic, and
perhaps with the compliment I have here paid him.

But in the foregoing remarks I have said but a tithe of what my heart
feels, when I think of the sufferings occasioned by drunkenness.

Even the cup of the burthened slave, writhing in his chains and toiling
under the lash, is not full of bitterness until the demon rum throws in
its dregs and fills it to overflowing.

How often does it occur that a passionate master, heated with wine,--mad
with himself and all about him, pours out his vengeful ire on the head and
back of some helpless slave, and leaves him weltering in his blood! How
often may be heard the agonized wail of the slave mother, deploring the
departure of some innocent child that has been lost in gambling, while the
master was intoxicated!

How often do the shrieks of the poor but virtuous slave girl, ring through
the midnight air, as she, pleading for death rather than life, rushes