A great American writer has lately given a terrible account of “The Social Influence of the Saloon” in his country.  The article is very grave, and every word is weighed, but the cold precision of the paper attracts the reader with a horrible fascination.  The author does not so much regret the enormous waste of money, though he allows that about two hundred millions of pounds sterling are spent yearly in the States on strong drink; but he mourns most because of the steady ruin which he sees overtaking the social happiness of his country.  The saloon is subtly corrupting the men of America, and the ghastly plagues of selfishness, brutality, and immorality are spreading with cruel swiftness.  The great author’s conclusion is more than startling, and I confess to having caught my breath when I read it.  He says in effect, “We sacrificed a million men in order to do away with slavery, but we now have working in our midst a curse which is infinitely worse than slavery.  One day we shall be obliged to save ourselves from ruin, even if we have to stamp out the trade in alcohol entirely, and that by means of a civil war.”  Strong words—­and yet the man speaks with intense conviction:  and his very quietude only serves to emphasise the awful nature of his disclosures.  As I read on I saw with horror that the description of the state of things in America accurately fits our own country.  We do not talk of a “saloon” here, but “bar” means the same thing; and the “bar” is crushing out the higher life of the English middle-class as surely as the saloon is destroying American manhood.  Amid all our material prosperity, amid all the complexities of our amazing community, an evil is at work which gathers power daily and which is actually assassinating, as it were, every moral quality that has made England strong and beneficent.  Begin with a picture.  The long curved counter glistens under the flare of the gas; the lines of gaudy bottles gleam like vulgar, sham jewelry; the glare, the glitter, the garish refulgence of the place dazzle the eye, and the sharp acrid whiffs of vile odour fall on the senses with a kind of mephitic influence.  The evening is wearing away, and the broad space in front of the bar is crowded.  A hoarse crashing babble goes steadily on, forming the ground-bass of an odious symphony; shrill and discordant laughter rises by fits and starts above the low tumult; a coarse joke sets one group sniggering; a vile oath rings out from some foul-mouthed roysterer; and at intervals some flushed and bleared creature breaks into a slavering laugh which has a sickly resemblance to weeping.  At one of the side-tables a sodden brute leans forward and wags his head to and fro with ignoble solemnity; another has fallen asleep and snores at intervals with a nauseous rattle; smart young men, dressed fashionably, fling chance witticisms at the busy barmaids, and the nymphs answer with glib readiness.  This is the home of Jollity and Good-fellowship; this