STRONG drink is, in a sense, the weakest of all drinks in its fruits, and the most prodigal also of that which is not only the strength but the glory of man. It enfeebles his body and hurls the mind from the loftiest and most brilliant eminence, and lays it prostrate in the dust of inert imbecility or driveling idiocy. It squanders the money, and leaves families in squalor and discomfort who would otherwise be well clothed and happy. The landlord’s pleasant greeting is hollowness itself, rendered even more hollow still by the mercenary inspiration which prompts it. We do not light the fire for the herring’s comfort, but to roast him. “But, doctor, I must have some kind of a stimulant,” cried an invalid, earnestly. “I am weak and it strengthens me. I am cold and it warms me.” “Precisely,” came the old doctor’s truthful answer. “See here; this stick is cold,” taking up a stick of wood from the box beside the hearth and tossing it into the fire—“now it is warm. But is the stick benefited?” The sick man watched the wood first send out little puffs of smoke and then burst into flame, and replied:— “Of course not; it is burning itself.” “And so are you when you warm yourself with alcohol. You are literally burning up the delicate tissues of your stomach and brain. Every time you are taking it to give you strength, you are becoming weak. And the stronger the liquor, the weaker it makes the drinker.”—Sel.