Women whose costly jewels and magnificent robes were the livery of sin, the outside garnishing of moral death; the flush upon whose cheek, was not the flush of happiness, and the light in their eyes was not the sparkle of innocent joy,--women whose laughter was sadder than their tears, and who were dead while they lived.

In that house were wine, and mirth, and revelry, "but the dead were there," men dead to virtue, true honor and rectitude, who walked the streets as other men, laughed, chatted, bought, sold, exchanged and bartered, but whose souls were encased in living tombs, bodies that were dead to righteousness but alive to sin.
Like a spider weaving its meshes around the unwary fly, John Anderson wove his network of sin around the young men that entered his saloon.
Before they entered there, it was pleasant to see the supple vigor and radiant health that were manifested in the poise of their bodies, the lightness of their eyes, the freshness of their lips and the bloom upon their cheeks.

But Oh! it was so sad to see how soon the manly gait would change to the drunkard's stagger.

To see eyes once bright with intelligence growing vacant and confused and giving place to the drunkard's leer.

In many cases lassitude supplanted vigor, and sickness overmastered health.