ONE beautiful afternoon in August there came to me the heart-broken wife of a State prison convict. We tried to plan for his pardon and restoration to home and the world. It was a very sad case. He was the only surviving son of a very noble man—one who lived only to serve the poor, the tempted, and the criminal. All he had, all he was, he gave unreservedly to help thieves and drunkards. His house was their home; his name their bail to save them from prison; his reward their reformation. It was a happy hour to hear him tell of the hundreds he had shielded from the contamination and evil example of prisons, and of the large proportion he had good reason to believe permanently saved. Out of hundreds, he once told me, only two left him to pay their bail, forfeited by neglect to show themselves in court, according to agreement—only two! Bred under such a roof, he started in life with a generous heart, noble dreams, and high purpose. Ten years of prosperity, fairly earned by energy, industry and character, ended in bankruptcy, as is often the case in our risky and changing trade; then came a struggle for business, for bread—temptation, despair, intemperance. He could not safely pass the open doors that tempted him to indulgence, forgetfulness, and crime. How hard his wife wrought and struggled to save him from indulgence, and then to shield him from exposure! How long wife, sister and friends labored to avert conviction and the State prison! “I would spare him gladly,” wrote the prosecuting attorney, “if he would stop drinking. He shall never go to prison if he will be a sober man. But all this crime and wretchedness come from rum.” Manfully did the young man struggle to resist the appetite. Again and again did he promise, and keep his promise perhaps a month, and then fall. He could not walk the streets and earn his bread soberly, while so many open doors—opened by men who sought to coin gold out of their neighbors’ vices—lured him to indulgence. So, rightfully, the State pressed on, and he went to prison—an honored name disgraced, a loving home broken up, a wide circle of kindred sorely pained, a worthy, well-meaning man, wrecked! Sorrow and crime “all come from rum,” says the keen-sighted lawyer. As I parted from the sad wife on my door-step, I looked beyond, and close by the laughing sea stood a handsome cottage. The grounds were laid out expensively and with great taste. Over the broad piazza hung lazily an Eastern hammock, while all around were richly painted chairs and lounges of every easy and tempting form. Overhead were quaint vases of beautiful flowers, and the delicious lawn was bordered with them. On the lawn itself gaily dressed women laughed merrily over croquet, and noisy children played near. A span of superb horses pawed the earth impatiently at the gate, while gay salutations passed between the croquet-players and the fashionable equipages that rolled by. It was a comfortable home, as well as a luxurious one. Nature, taste, and wealth had done their best. It was a scene of beauty, comfort, taste, luxury, and wealth. All came from rum! Silks and diamonds, flowers and equipage, stately roof, and costly attendance, all came from rum! The owner was one who, in a great city, coined his gold out of the vices of his fellow-men. To me it was a dissolving view. I lost sight of the gay women, the frolicsome children, the impatient horses, and the ocean rolling up to the lawn. I saw instead the pale convict in his cell twelve feet by nine; the sad wife going from judge to attorney, from court to governor’s council, begging mercy for her over-tempted husband. I heard above the children’s noise, the croquet, laugh, and the surf-waves, the lawyer’s stern reason for exacting the full penalty of the law—All this comes from rum! Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink! Woe unto him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness and his chamber by wrong; for the stone shall cry out of the wall, and the beam out of the timber shall answer it.—Wendell Phillips.