and the eyes are hollow with grief? Who made that life a wreck, and
filled eternity with the uproar of a doomed spirit?

There are those whose regular business it is to work this death. They
mix a cup that glows and flashes and foams with enchantment. They
call it Cognac, or Hock, or Heidsick, or Schnapps, or Old Bourbon, or
Brandy, or Champagne; but they tell not that in the ruddy glow there
is the blood of sacrifice, and in its flash the eye of uncoiled
adders, and in the foam the mouth-froth of eternal death. Not knowing
what a horrible mixture it is, men take it up and drink it down--the
sacrificial blood, the adder's venom, the death-froth--and smack their
lips and call it a delightful beverage.

Oh! if I had some art by which I could break the charm of the
tempter's bowl, and with mailed hand lift out the long serpent of
eternal despair, and shake out its coils, and cast it down, and crush
it to death!

But the enchantment cannot thus be broken. It hides in the bottom of
the bowl; and not until a man is entirely fallen does the monster
lift itself up, and strike with its terrific fangs, and answer all
his implorations for mercy with fiendish hiss. We must arouse public
opinion, until city, State, and national officials shall no longer
dare to neglect the execution of the law. We have enough enactments
now to revolutionize our cities and strike terror through the
drinking-houses and gambling-dens and houses of sin. Tracts
distributed will not do it; Bibles printed will not accomplish it;
city missionaries have not power for the work.

_Will_ tracts do it? As well try with three or four snow-flakes to put