who is a voluntary slave to his cups, has any real love for his country or liberty? When the demon of war appears to wrest that invaluable treasure from the hand of those who will live free or die, what can we hope from the intemperate? Shall we send them into the field of slaughter, there to be mown down in whole hecatombs by the scythe of death? Should a million of drunkards stagger out to battle, they would give an easy but an ignoble victory to a mere handful of such as can be both temperate and brave. The use of ardent spirits breaks down the heart of courage. It destroys, in the drunkard, every noble and generous principle. He is unfit for that cool, calculating, determined bravery, which is so inconceivably useful on the field of battle. He therefore, in time of war, deprives his country of the courage, and wisdom, and fortitude, of a good soldier. Among a nation of drunkards, civil liberty could not exist. In such a community, the tree of liberty would soon wither and die. Who, then, that loves his country or civil liberty, will not bring the whole weight of his influence to prevent the evils of intemperance, to stay the progress of this sea of destruction, to stem this tide of moral death, which is transforming so many thousand good citizens into nuisances to society?

Intemperance not only unfits men to discharge their duties, either in peace or war, but drunken

ness is itself a national disgrace. Every true American would feel hurt, to have a citizen of any other nation on earth point to a drunkard as he reels and staggers along the highway, belching out his half-uttered oaths, and say, with a sneer: "There goes an American." He would feel his lofty independent spirit sink, to see, on any public occasion, a hundred or more drunkards patrolling the streets, while the stranger should say, in an under tone of voice, "The Americans are a nation of drunkards." Let us, at once, wipe off this national stigma from our national character, by refusing to use ardent spirits as a drink. Where is the man in whose veins a single drop of American blood flows, that will not throw from him the drunkard's cup untasted? What patriot would not feel honored by assisting to remove from his country such a despicable stigma as drunkenness?

Even the moderate use of ardent spirits is evidently a national evil. This leads the soldier and mariner from one step to another in the road to disgrace, till the rope's end or drummer's scourge punishes them for their neglect of duty, or for the actual commission of crime. All who have any thing like an acquaintance with the army and navy of the United States, know that more than nine-tenths of the crimes committed by our seamen and soldiers may be traced to the moderate

or immoderate use of distilled liquors, as their procuring cause. I love the soldier. I love the sailor. It wounds my heart to see that blood follow the lash, which he would voluntarily pour out for the salvation of his country. I detest the practice which leads the soldier whose heart pants after glory, into the paths of infamy. To quaff the poisoned bowl does this. Let the soldier then, and the mariner, the protectors of their country's honor, avoid the ordinary use of ardent spirits in any quantity, as they would the painful scourge of disgrace. Who that loves his country can forbear to frown upon this national evil, this pest of society, this death of true courage, this canker-worm of liberty, this gangrene of public honor-the use of distilled liquor?

X. It is death to Religious Feeling. Intemperance, wherever it exists, destroys all true religious feeling. The solemn realities of eternity seldom make an abiding impression on the minds of the intemperate. Of the truth of this, the Christian, and especially the Christian minister, has fearful evidence. Should the preacher's reasoning on eternal things be powerful as that of the half angelic Newton, it would carry no conviction to the drunkard's mind. Should truth flash on the intellectual powers of all around, like the bright blaze of the noon-day sun, his soul

would remain enveloped in the dark gloom of moral midnight. Did persuasion, like the honey of eloquence, flow from the tongue of the messenger of mercy, he could not chain the attention of the intemperate. Should he paint virtue in all its attractive charms, the tippler would not perceive its loveliness. Did he, as with a pencil of light, portray the undying bliss that religion can give, he could not make the drunkard feel. Should he, with the light of revelation in his hand, point the intemperate man to the dark abodes of eternal death, the terrific sight would not make him tremble. Were the cover removed from hell's burning mouth; could he with the eyes of his understanding, discover the wretched inhabitants of that world of woe, drinking liquid fire mingled with the venom of the damned; did he perceive them tossed upon a sea of flame, lashed into fury by the tremendous storm of divine wrath; should he behold the worm that never dies, making its eternal feast on the very vitals of their immortal souls; did he discover infernal spirits robed in burning brimstone, wailing in inconcievable agony; should he hear the doleful yells of the lost, or see them writhing in anguish and in hopeless despair, amid the eternal folds of the old serpent, and in the undying embrace of endless death, the drunkard's rum-seared conscience would not be horror-stricken. In view of all

this misery, wretchedness and woe, it would not give the alarm. It would scarcely feel the sting of guilt. His judgment would convince him that his present course must terminate in endless torment, in that place where hope never comes, and where God has forever forgotten to be gracious. But notwithstanding all this, he would still stagger on down through the broad road towards that prison of sorrow, and hopelessness, and agony, on the threshold of which is written in characters of flame, "no departure hence."

On the drunkard's cold unfeeling heart, the joys of heaven make as little impression as the terrors of hell. Should the ambassador for Christ throw open the very gates of heaven; should he in the unvarnished language of inspiration itself, describe the glories of the upper world; should he point the intemperate to that kingdom which shall never end, or speak to them of that crown which shall sparkle with gems of immortality, when earth and all its empires shall cease to be; should he lead them on the wings of thought to the very portals of eternal bliss, and show them the robe of righteousness with which saints in heaven are clothed; should the melodious harmony of the New Jerusalem strike their listening ear; should all the unalloyed delight that happiness and holiness, and reconciliation with God can give, be presented to their mind, their