boiling blood through my veins, which returned and froze about it.  I have neither words nor images sufficiently horrible to typify my condition.  I became, for the time an abhorred object; the sex of my sainted mother made a wide sweep to pass me by, and dear, little, innocent children fled from me as from a monster.  My soul was no longer my own.  The fiend Appetite had given it over, bound and helpless, to the fiend Alcohol.  I turned by bleared vision towards the vaulted skies, and cursed them because they did not rain fire and brimstone down upon me and destroy me.  And yet, oh! how I dreaded to die!  The grave opened before me, and a million horrors were in its hollow and black chasm.  The scalding tears I shed gave me no relief; the cries I uttered were unheard; and every ear was deaf to my pleadings.  At times I thought of the asylum, and I would have given worlds could I have retraced my steps, and slept once more securely within its merciful and protecting walls.  O, God!  I screamed, why did I leave it?  As day after day dragged its endless length along, and no relief came, my despair was a delirium of wretchedness.  The sun appeared to be extinguished, and the universe was a void of black, impenetrable darkness, out of which, before and after me, rose the hideous specters, Death and Annihilation.  The unimaginable horrors of the tremens were upon me.

Once more hear my voice, you who read!  Lose no opportunity to strike a blow at intemperance.  It may smile in the rosy face of youth, but do not be deceived; there are agonies unspeakable hidden beneath that smile.  Look not on the wine cup when it is red, no matter if the jeweled hand of a princess hold it between you and the light.  It is the beginning whose end is degradation, remorse, misery and death!  Turn from a glass of beer as from a goblet of reeking and poisoned blood.  It is a danger to be shunned.  Beware that you do not learn this too late.

Alcohol, ruin, and death go hand in hand.  The region over which Alcohol is king is one of decay.  It is full of graves.  The ghosts of the million joys, he has slain wail amid its ghastly desolations; there are sounds of sobbing orphans there; echoes of widows’ shrieks; and the lamentations of fond mothers and wives, heart-broken, vex the realm; youth and age lie here dishonored together; in vain the sweetheart begs her lover to return from its fatal mists; in vain the pure sister calls with trembling tongue for her erring brother.  He will not come back.  He is the slave of a tyrant who has no compassion and knows no mercy.  Oppose this tyrant, all ye who love the home circle better than the bawdy house; fight him all ye who set honor above dishonor; curse him all ye who prefer peace to discord, and law to anarchy; war against him in all ways unceasingly all ye to whom the thought of liberty and safety is dear, to whom happiness and truth are more desirable than misery and falsehood.