d good-will to
their fellow-men,' will be surprised to see how much easier it is
to _do_ these things when they _try_, than when they only _think_
about them.

"Much, of course, depends upon the superintendent, who needs to
possess those genial qualities which readily win the confidence and
good-will of patients, and which he readily turns to account, by
encouraging them to use the means which the Creator has given them
to co-operate in curing themselves. The means of cure are in the
patient's own hands, and it is quite a gift to be able to make him
see it."

THE WASHINGTONIAN HOME AT CHICAGO

is on the same plan, in all essential respects, with that of Boston; and
the reports show about the same average of cures and beneficial results.
How the patient is treated in this Home may be inferred from the
following extract from an article on "The Cause, Effect and Cure of
Inebriety," from the pen of Prof. D. Wilkins, the superintendent, which
appeared in a late number of _The Quarterly Journal of Inebriety_. In
answer to the question, How can we best save the poor drunkard, and
restore him to his manhood, his family and society, he says:

"Money, friends, relatives and all have forsaken him, his hope blasted,
his ambition gone, and he feels that no one has confidence in him, no
one cares for him. In this condition he wends his way to an institution
of reform, a penniless, homeless, degraded, lost and hopeless drunkard.
Here is our subject, how shall we save him? He has come from the squalid
dens, and lanes of filth, of misery, of want, of debauchery and death;
no home, no sympathy and no kind words have greeted him, perhaps, for
years. He is taken to the hospital. A few days pass, and he awakes from
the stupidity of drink, and as he opens his eyes, what a change! He
looks around, kind and gentle voices welcome him, his bed is clean and
soft, the room beautiful, tasteful and pleasant in its arrangements, the
superintendent, the physician, the steward and the inmates meet him with
a smile and treat him as a brother. He is silent, lost in meditation.
Thoughts of other days, of other years, pass through his mind in quick
succession as the tears steal gently down his cheeks. He talks thus to
himself: 'I am mistaken. _Somebody does care_ for the drunkard. And if
somebody cares for me, _I ought to care for myself_.' Here reform first
commences. In a few days, when free, to som