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often and how many celebrate the feast of Bacchus — a double feast of the first class, with a vigil and an octave — have we not good cause to fear the history of Jerusalem's destruction will repeat itself? The drunkard is guiltier than the Saviour's crucifiers, for they were irresponsible fanatics, but he deliberately blinds his reason face to face with sin — " a double crime," says Aristotle, deserving double punishment," a crime once under ban of excommunication in the Church. Drunkenness is such folly that, unlike most sins, its very motive is irrational. Every sense will crave its proper object, but that object in excess destroys the sense. The eye craves light, but not the direct rays of the sun; the ear craves sound, but not the shock of an explosion; and an overindulged taste forfeits its power of enjoyment. I will not deny, a little wine may please and benefit betimes, but only as St. Paul prescribes: " a little and that, too, only when necessary for the stomach's sake and one's manifold infirmities." There is danger always, lest, from small libations, one become a too fervent worshipper of Bacchus. " Their God," says St. Paul, " is their belly." A certain fish discovered by Aristotle has its heart in its stomach, and is called the sea-donkey. The drunkard shares the characteristics of that lowly animal; his heart is where his treasure is: he is lazy, stupid, lustful, and open only to one argument— a club. He lacks the higher qualities of the brute — a healthy appetite for water and the power of judging when he has enough. Talk to him of God and his soul — of the Mission or of Lent, and notwith-