at kills him, his hopes of immortality blasted for
ever; it is all

"Me miserable,
Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell."

And his family. I can never look at it but with feelings of deepest
anguish.

"Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of paradise that hast escaped the fall,"

thou art shipwrecked here. Sorrow, woe, wounds, poverty, babblings, and
contention, have entered in and dwell here. Yet we have 300,000 such
families in the land; and if each family consists of four individuals,
more than a million persons are here made wretched by this curse of
curses.

And his death. O, to die in our houses, amid our friends, and with the
consolations of religion, strips not death of its character as the king
of terrors. But to die as the drunkard dies, an outcast from society, in
some hovel or almshouse, on a bed of straw, or in some ditch, or pond,
or frozen in a storm; to die of the _brain-fever_, conscience
upbraiding, hell opening, and foul spirits passing quick before his
vision to seize him before his time--this, this is woe; this is the
triumph of sin and Satan. Yet, in the last ten years, 300,000 have died
in our land the death of the drunkard; rushing, where?--"Drunkards shall
not inherit the kingdom of God"--rushing into hell, where their worm
dieth not, and their fire can never be quenched. And if the demon is
suffered to continue his ravages, 300,000 more of our existing
population will, in the same way, rush into eternal burnings.

And his funeral. Have you ever been at a drunkard's funeral? I do not
ask, did you look at his corpse? It was cadaverous before he died. But
did you look at his father as he bent over the grave and exclaimed in
agony, "O, my son, my son, would to God I had died for thee, my son."
Did you look at his widow, pale with grief, and at his ragged,
hunger-bitten children at her side, and see them turn away to share the
world's cold pity, or, perhaps, rejected and forlorn, follow the same
path to death and hell?

Such are the ravages of the demon we hunt. Its footsteps are marked with
blood. We glory in our liberties, and every fourth of July our bells
ring a merry peal, as if we were the happiest people on earth. But O,
our country, our country! She has a worm at her vitals, making fast a
wreck of her physical energies, her intellect, and her moral principle;
augmenting her pauperism and her crime; nullifying her elections--for a
drunkard is no