If there is one spectacle on earth more melancholy than another, it is the death of a drunkard. Friends turn away from such a scene in despair, not wishing to linger to catch the last whisper of the dying wretch, whose scarcely perceptible breath is impregnated with the fumes of poison that has destroyed both soul and body. When the last spark has expired, and the soul has taken its flight from a rotten carcass, and a few friends, out of duty to kindred humanity, carry the cold, polluted body to its silent hiding place, a voice seems to proclaim, in accents from the eternal world, Lost! lost! No hope—no hope! Notwithstanding the awful truth of the above, there are those dear to many who read this, now rushing on to perform a part in this melancholy tragedy. Some of the most promising of friends, a few years ago, have written, while others are now writing, their names upon this pass-book of hell, and it would appear from their acts as though each were striving to be first on the list of victims. How heedlessly they rush on to ruin! We would snatch them from the blood-dripping wheels of this idol, but they will not be saved. If not, great God! deliver coming generations from such a fate.