INTEMPERANCE ALIAS DEATH.

THERE is no topic, no local grievance, no phase of political or sectarian opinions, nor question of absorbing public interest but may, under the influence of party spirit, passion, prejudice, diversity of opinions, and the actings of self-interest, be greatly overdrawn, distorted, and exaggerated. To this general rule Intemperance forms an exception; for no description, however vivid, no terms, however strong, no denunciation, however fierce, sweeping, and unmitigated, can be too harsh, strong, and universal.

Look abroad in this or any densely-crowded locality; peruse the chapter of sudden deaths, fatal accidents, melancholy occurrences, murders, and suicides in the public prints, and having done so, we will see that the foot of Intemperance is so often dipped in blood, that we may trace her steps by the fatal token.

Here a husband murders his wife; there a man stabs his fellow in the street in a drunken brawl; and how often do we hear of individuals who, having set fire to heart and brain with alcohol, are found in their solitary homes burned to death; and, alas! in the skirts of many an intemperate mother will be found the blood of the poor innocents, born of her body, who have died,

INTEMPERANCE ALIAS DEATH.

277

not by the visitation of God, but from overlaying, cold, neglect, and want of proper nursing and nourishment, or by a reckless, and, in many instances, an intentional overdosing with narcotics the unfortunate child, that she may obtain, with the paltry sum due at its death from the burial club, the means of further indulgence in this dangerous vice! And are we not daily dragging from the canal, the river, the lake, the disfigured and bloated remains of the victims of Intemperance, or drawing from under the grinding wheels of the railway-car the bleeding and mangled trophies of her fearful power? and the farther we penetrate into this Aceldama, we stumble upon greater horrors-such as those which beset the confirmed drunkard after a lengthened debauch, when delirium tremens shrouds his brain and unhinges his mind; when his trembling nerves thrill with agony, and the snakes of remorse are writhing around and lacerating his heart; when Heaven frowns dark above his head, seemingly shut to the outpourings of his despair, and earth, loathing his presence, seems as if she would gladly shake him from her encumbered lap. Then he feels that for him there is no refuge on earth, and no room in heaven, and his soul chooseth strangling rather than life, and he hastens to throw down the intolerable load of his being in the dark depths of the suicide's grave. These are but a tithe of the deadly crimes and horrors thickly sown over our beloved land by the hand of intemperance; but above and beyond all calculation are the crimes, shames, miseries, and deaths which

follow in her train, and are entailed by her presence

and power.

But we will thank God and take courage; for the grain of mustard seed which was sown in toil and contumely by our primitive total abstainers, many years ago, has taken deep root, and sprung up, and is now become a goodly tree, so that many who once passed by or stepped over it, regarding it as a worthless plant of stunted growth, are now seen flocking together, like the fowls of heaven, to lodge in the branches thereof. And the earth, which for a time was as iron beneath, and the sky as brass above us, wears now a more genial aspect, for the cloud, small at first, like a man's hand, is now spreading over the face of the whole heavens, and there is a sound of abundance of rain.

LYRICS OF DRINK.

"Whatever step I take, and into whatever direction I may strike, the drink-demon starts up before me and blocks my way."-M. HILL.

I TURNED me to the house of prayer,
Nor thought to meet the demon there-
But as I musing onward trod,

I met him staggering on the road,
In semblance of some beastly creatures,
With blood-shot eyes and bloated features,
Who revel held the live-long night,
Till now the Sabbath sun shone bright.

I stood beside an open grave;
The demon here no power can have.
The coffin lowered, the grave filled up,
The mourners crave a friendly cup
Their griefs to soothe and spirits cheer.
Oh! draw the veil and drop the tear
O'er scenes on which the demon smiles,
When they have fallen by his wiles.

I turned me to the police cells-
The demon's voice there ever swells
Through every passage, cell, and chink,
And echo ever answers "Drink!"

A

corpse is borne in at the doorHe died in drink; and on the floor, Dead drunk, some ghastly wretches lie, Unfit to live, but, ah! to die!

I turned to where the parish dole
Is monthly dealt-too oft the sole
Resource of widow'd age and want-
Yet on this pittance, stinted, scant,
I've known upon this piteous dole
The demon levy tax and toll;
By him from Want's lean fingers torn,
Though shivering, starving, and forlorn!

Turn ye to furnace, forge, and mine;
Turn to canal and railway line,

Where wheels revolve and hammers clink,
And, lo! up starts the demon Drink.
The joiner's bench, the mason's shed,
The place of dough and smoking bread,
The tailor's board, the Crispin's stool-
All, all proclaim the demon's rule!