ze
more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour,
the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and
to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer
fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and
he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to
the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his
companion.

Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her
heart, she threaded her way into one of those shambles where man is
made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She
pressed her way through the bacchanalian crowd who were revelling
there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff
that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her
husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "_Give
me back my husband!_"

"There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the
prostrate wretch.

"_That my husband?_ What have you done to him? _That my husband?_ What
have you done to that noble form that once, like the great oak,
held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for
support and shelter? _That my husband?_ With what torpedo chill have
you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that
once noble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore
the superscription of the Godhead? _That my husband?_ What have you
done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and
see in his mirror the image of his God? What Egyptian drug have you
poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart
into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your
basilisk spells, and give me back the _man_ that stood with me by the
altar!"

The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that
burning liquid was opened upon our shores, have been saluted, at every
stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such
widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in
Israel at the massacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple,
have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "_Give me back my
husband! Give me back my boy! Give me back my brother! Give me back my
sister! Give me back my wife!_"

But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals?
No! not he. He could show his credential