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WIMSESAHCa ®A£E.
Frum Ned Buntliac’a Own.
THE COURT OF SIN.
T THt TSILIO AUTHOR.
Squire Barker was lounging in an easy chair,
which stood near the door of his capacious bar;
now scanning the columns of the morning paper,
now conversing in an affable manner with his
patrons, of which there were no less than twenty
in the room.
The Squire was about fifty —rather corpulent —
with a round, full, and glowing face, a short, rud
dy nose, a retiring forehead, and small, twinkling,
cunning eyes. He was leaning back in his easy
chair, with both feet elevated on a stool very like
those used by barbers. His hair was brushed
lazily from his brow, bis hands were engaged
with accommodating his eyes with the paper, and
his vest and dickey were unbuttoned —for it was
after dinner. In line the Squire was the picture
of a man at his ease—of a man contented with
himself and with his profession.
Squire Barker smiled as he glanced over the
morning paper; Squire Barker smiled as he
glanced over his patrons. He seemed well
pleased with both.
His patrons —why not say his victims ? —were
composed of men and boys, from fifty to four
teen. These were in various conditions —and
bore various stamps of character* Here was the
man perfectly intoxicated, and here was one in
the first delirium of drunkenness; here was the
remorseless and shameless sot, stumbling about
in rags and filth ; and here was the well-dressed
youth, who had not yet made his pilgrimage to
the gutter, but who had got entangled in the web
of smiles and soft words, woven by the cunning
Squire.
The bar was adorned after the most approved
and attractive style. Bottles innumerable stood
upon the shelves, in intimate componionship
with candies and sugar, with segars and cinna
mon, and filled with liquors, whose varied hues
constantly whetted the appetite of the beholders,
and whose essence stimulates everywhere the
flagging muscles of passion and vice.
“Gentlemen,” said the Squire as he lowered
the paper upon his knees, —“here’s a most ab
surd story about the effects of intemperance on a
poor fool—out West. I wish to heaven, gentle
men, that editors had more sense than to print
such trash. Now, to mind, gentlemen, it’s mean
for one profession to run down another. But to
see the actions of those silly fanatics, who prate
against drinking, and deny to men the bounties of
Providence —it only provokes one’s mirth. —The
whole plan is so sillv, gentlemen ; it’s laugha
ole.”
The Squire might have spoken still farther,
had he not been interrupted by the entrance of a
female.
It was the drnnkards’s wife, whom we saw in
the preceding picture.
Moving with trembling step and tearful eye
through die brutal group, she approached Squire
Barker. The latter started slightly at the sight
of the suffering woman, but, in a minute, he re
gained his equanimity, and muttered:
“H umph! more miseries to tell of, I ’spose—i
humph?”
Then he added, in a louder tone:
“What’s your business with me, good wo
man ?”
“ I came —■” and the poor wife’s voice trem
bled with emotion, that it was not easy to over
come. There was a pause.
“ You came?—-I know that, but what for, what
for ?”
“ I came to see if you would not return the
Bible— mu Bible, which my husband brought here
last night.”
“Just as I expected,” said the Squire.
“ Won’t you let me have it again ?”
“Yes—for two dollars and twenty-one cents.
Your husband owes me that sum precisely.”
“But I have no money—not even a penny—if
I had, I would give it. But I want the Bible—”
“So I ’spose. But the Bible you can’t have.
It’s mine until money redeems it.”
“ But it was my mother’s dying gift,” urged the
woman.
“ I cant help that. It’s my property now —so
you may rerire, if you please, and give way to
customers,”
“No —no; I can’t go away till I have my Bi
ble,” cried the wretched woman, with streaming
eyes. “It was the last article in the house that
could be taken without leaving us absolutely to
perish.”
“You are very had off—very poor, I should
think—but I can’t help that. Pray go away.”
“You cant help it sir, you cent /” exclaimed the
wife, with indignation. “We are bad off—we
are poor—hut you made us so —you caused our
miseries!”
“I caused your poverty aud misery?”
“ es—you ; and now you refuse to restore my
..mother’s gift, which you have stolen—yes stolen ,
for it’s no better.”
“ You are very warm, woman,” returned the
Squire, with a cold smile of scorn ; “You bring
some very grave charges against me ; but ask
these gentlemen if I’m not honorable.”
“ You are not honorable, sir. There’s not a
bit of honor in your soul. And I curse you for
wrongs you have inflicted upon ug,~ and I
will teach my children to curse you,” cried the
wronged and enraged wife, with a look from
which the Squire shrunk, somewhat appalled.
“Go out woman. I cant hear such words, and
1 won’t.”
“ 1 will go out; but remember that the curse of
wronged wives and skeleton children rests upon
your head. Remember it when you lie down at
night —remember it in your dreams —remember
it in the morning—remember it in death, —re-
member it—”
The last words were lost to the ears of the
Squire, as the door closed behind the poor wo
man’s form.
Is it any wonder that discretion should give
way to indignation and rage, in the bosom of
this insulted wife; or that propriety should he
forgotten amid the consciousness ot aecmulated
wrongs ?
The incident above related has not the charm
of novelty. Its parallel has been witnessed a
thousand times in the dram-shop. There is some
thing in the very atmosphere of the place that
stifles the finest feelings, the nobler powers ot,
man ; and that brings him irresistibly to the level
of the brute. There is something that makes
him irredeemably selfish —forgetful of everything
savethe demands of gross appetite, and of gross
er gain.
May not the dram-shop he termed The Court oj
Sin ? Your dram-shop for vagrants and villains
of unwashed dye; your dram-shop for men in
broad-cloth and divine whiskers —may not either
he properly so termed ? Does not sin of every
hue, pretence, fashion 4 and name, receive an im
pulse from the place ?
The Court of Sin!
You may see the liquor lord moving there in all
the state and pomp of wrong; you may see his
obsequious courtiers clinging to his presence as a
mad man will cling to a goblet of poison ; you
may see, in fine, the whole caravan of iniquity
moving amid this desert, passing amid this death
ly malaria, and stumbling over the white hones
of the perished generations who have gone before.
Still community suffers the Court of Sin to re
main in its midst. It is a curious body —this thing
we designate as a community—composed of
many members, few of whom have yet learned
that happiness is only found in universal harmony.
Thus, if an effort is made to arouse the public at
tention and the public effort against this infernal
court, ten to one, sectarian spleen will neutralize
your labor, and the fanatics (?) will receive a show
er of ridicule from the liquor lord and his cour
tiers. Or if a few conscientious men attempt to
legislate against this iniquitous court, that bane of
civil liberty known as Party Prejudice will give
a hack-handed, hut none the less effectual, stroke
to their plans, and the result is as before.
Oh, ye mighty but fickle body—community—
when will ye learn the true philosophical, Chris
tian process of plucking the thorns from your pil
low?
Pluck out selfishness, and the thorns will he
rooted up I
#*######
Another glance at the Court of Sin.
Half an hour after the drunkard’s wife took her
leave, fired with indignation and despair, and
venting curses on the author of her sufferings,
another interesting event took place in the dram
shop.
A lame boy, about fifteen y'ears of age, made
his way by the aid of a pair of crutches, into the
presence of the contented Squire Barker.
“I come to ask you Mr. Barker, not to sell ray
father any more drink. It is ruining him—it is
CD
ruining us all.” said the lame boy.
The Squire eyed the youth with the accustomed
look of serenity. The youth looked handsome,
-brave,-and noble, in spite of his crippled limbs.
His cheek was soft and fair as a girl’s —his brow
frank and high—and his eye clear and large.
“I think you’d better mind your own business,
and not meddle with y 7 our father’s matters,”
ansered the Squire. “These boys now-a-days
are wonderful wise ; and it is strange how they
suffer their fathers to live with them at all. Would
you believe it,gentlemen”—the Squire turned con
siderately 7 towards his patrons —“I’ve had three
like messages from three such hoys this very
week, and still it’s only 7 Friday !”
The lame hoy’s cheeks slightly reddened, but
he answered with firmness :
“My father has contracted a bad habit, and is
not properly, at all times, his own master. He
has a passion for drink which you are forever
gratifying and increasing, and which is bringing
him to disgrace and ruin. It’s my business to
prevent this if I can. Sell him no more drink,
and the habit will he broken, and all will go well.
Do this.”
“The same old story,” said Barker. “I tell
you, young man, I’ll sell liquor to whom I please.
It’s my profession ; and if men will ruin them
selves with what I have to sell, why, that’s their
business —not mine.”
“Then you are determined to sell my poor
father drink so long as he will buy—though y r ou
know it is ruining him ?”
“Humph!—go out of the room, sir!”
“Then, you will coolly reduce us all to pov
erty, to beggary, and shame? —You will sink my
father into the slough of crime and despair?—You
will make my mother’s gray hairs shrivel in the
winter’s frost; and her unsheltered form burn in
the summer’s heat?—And you will send me hob
bling through tie pitiless world, on these crutch
es, the sport and derision ol the cruel multitude ?
All this you will do, because it is your profession?”
As the lame youth proceeded with these bitter,
but well-deserved taunts, his face crimsoned deep
er, his eyes lit up, and his voice arose ta a fit pitch
for declamation.
The Squire was enraged, though it was very
seldom that snch a thing occurred with him, for
he was accustomed to get his gains and inflict his
miseries in a decidedly cool manner ; but, in the
present instance, he feared the effect of the youth’s
severe and eloquent words on his patrons, and
hence his rage.
“ Get out, sir !” he cried, “or I'll help you in a
’ way you don’t like. Leave, I say!”
“It will look quite as well to see you use vio
lence to a lame boy, as it does to see you sell
poison to your neighbors,” returned the youth bit
terly.
The Squire uttered a sharp oath, and arose to
his feet.
“You’d better not let me tell you again to leave
the room, young man,” he cried fiercely.
“ You’ll not do me more harm than your liquor
has done already,” was the bold retort of the lame
boy. “You have deprived me of a father, you
have driven my mother to despair, you have taken
away my honor—what else can you do ? You
may take aw r ay my crutches, you may bruise
my crippled limbs, you may drag my poor body
through the filth of your hell——”
The rage of the Squire would not permit him to
hear more. He caught the lame boy roughly by
the arm, dragged him to the door, and then re
leased him w r ith a blow! The latter gave utter
ance to many fiery words, as he bobbed away,
but the patrons of the Squire heard only these:
“Remember! you pay for all this, and dearly
too. I WILL HAUNT YOU ! THE ORPHAN’S AND
the Cripple’s Curse he yours ! ’
Such a scene as this could hardly occur, with
out impressing, to some extent, the minds of the
spectators, half-deadened though they were by
beastly sensuality. On this occasion, as had been
the case before, there were a few T patrons disposed
to censure the conduct of the Squire; but that
artful individual, by a well-chosen falsehood or
two, and a certain process of managing for which
he was famous, contrived to make so plausible a
defence, that the accusation was dropped into ob
livion, and several respectable pieces of silver into
the Squire’s darwer.
Such weakness and injustice are but too com
mon at the present time. A child can bribe his
play-fellow to cover a dangerous sin, for an apple
or a slick of candy; and the mature judgement
of men may be warped by soft words and sweet
ened liquor.
#######*
Yet another picture from the Court of Sin.
It’s a short, coarse-built, dark-complexioned,
but sober man, about middle age, who enters the
bar-room.
“Squire, can you lend me five dollars to-day?”
“Really, I think not. Havn’t got it to spare
now.”
“But, Squire, I’m in great trouble. My poor
wife”—here the man’s voice faltered—“my poor
wife is dying, and I havn’t a cent to get her com
forts with—l want money very much.”
“Sorry for it—can’t you borry it some where
else
“No! I’ve been all round and it’s no use.”
“Let’s see. There’s Robinson, he’s rich, he’ll
let you have it.”
“No! I’ve been there, and he says I’m a drun
ken dog, aud he won’t help me at all.
And the man’s face was flushed deeply as he
made the confession.
“Well, there’s Hanson—have you seen him?”
“Yes, and he says the same—l’m a drunken
puppy, and he wont help me. And I tell you
again, I’ve been all round, and can’t get help un
less you help me.”
“Well, I can’t —that’s certain. I’ve so many
applications for money that I’m often short; and
besides, you know if I were to lend you the cash,
it’s very doubtful whether I’d ever get it again.
You’ll admit you are not in safe circumstances
at present,” said the Squire, in his usual com
posed manner.
The applicant’s face glowed like a furnace, his
eyes lit, and his lips quivered. It was a full min
ute before he spoke. At last the wwds came :
“Squire Barker, I have paid one thousand dol
lars at this bar; your accursed liquor has eaten
up all my property; and now when I ask you to
lend me five dollars—only five dollars—to get a
lew comforts for my dying and abused wife, you
refuse me, and taunt me with my poverty! Oh,
God ! was ever a wrong greater?”
And the miserable wretch threw himself into a
chair and sobbed aloud.
“Ifyou paid me money,” reasoned the dram
dealer, in reply, “it was because you chose to do
so ; there was no compulsion about it, I don’t see
why, on that account, I should run the risk of
losing five dollars.”
He was perfectly cool—he was a man of system.
“Villain and wretch” shouted the applicant,
unable to restrain his rage while his miseries were
thus measured with mechanical indifference. “If
the suffering spirit of my poor wife were not so
near heaven, I would mince you in my rage, for
your impudent words. As it is, remember, my
CURSE BE UPON YOU AND YOUR ILL GOTTEN
WEALTH !”
With these W’ords, he rushed out of the room.
♦ ####**•
And this man, on whose head curses w r ere ac
cumulating as dollars accumulated in his drawer,
we will look upon in our next sketch. We shall
then see that wrong does not go unpunished in
this w r orld ; that the curses of the wife , the cripjile ,
and the pauper, are like knotted scorpions in the
bosom of the transgressor ; and we ip ay be in
structed by perusing the Legend of “ The
Haunted Dram-Dealer!”
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.
BY MRS. MARY L. GARDINER.
Childhood and Youth, like the sweet flowers of
Summer, are beautiful: beautiful in 1 heir own
bright forms —happy in their own sweet visions.
Light as the air they breathe, no cares, no anxie
ties press upon them, save those which are like
the still dews of evening that fall on the blushing
flowers, and pass away in the first rays of the
morning sun.
Childhood and Y outh, like flowers, soon fade—
soon cease to attract, by their richness and beau
ty, the admiring eye. Some retain their fra
srance loim after their loveliest hues are fled ;
o o m
while others more gaudy, ‘more strikingly bril
liant, expire as they close their bright petals, and
we know them no more for ever: no perfume re
mains to render their faded leaves precious.
How necessary for the young to cultvvate their
minds while living among sunshine and flowers,
and derive instruction from them. As they grow
in years, and enter upon the active duties of life,
how desirable it is that they should perform their
part upon its tragic stage, in such a manner as
shall render them useful and respected. They
will soon be parents —soon have the care of young
mortals; surrounded by those who will look up
to them for amusement and instruction. Their
minds must be cultivated, if they would be happy
and make others so: their hearts store-houses of
intelligence, from which should emanate all that
can delight. Home must be the bright spot;
earth must know none which can equal it. It
must be the resort of love, of peace, of joy. Every
thing depends upon the proper cultivation of the
mind. Let the Bible be first studied: it is from
this sacred fount the infant becomes first nourish
ed. How the bright eves of the listening cherubs
gleam with the varied emotions of joy and grief,
at the recital of its interesting stories!
Let truth be first stamped upon opening intel
lects, for great is the pleasure derived from this
pure fountain of enjoyment! The mother can
gain much by conversing with her children ; they
can be calmed and stilled in this way, better than
in any other. Children become weary of their
playthings, and are often irritable ; their feelings
must be soothed bv their mother ; this is her pe
culiar province; and as they grow in yeais she
must strengthen her efforts. Home must still be
the elysium of their souls. If separated, much
still depends upon the mother; she must follow
her children with her letters and her counsel. Pier
communications must be such as to keep alive
the flame of love, and draw their minds back to
the scenes of their childhood, that, however re
mote they may be—in whatever situation they
may be placed —in temptation, in sickness, in
health, in prosperity or adversity —like a charm,
home and mother must operate upon them, and
pr ove a talisman to guide them all in their devious
ways.
In affliction’s stormy hour, when the bright orb
of day is shut from the weakened eye—when the
voice of song is hushed, and the rambling among
the flowers are over—when the same monotonous
scene occurs from day to day, from month to
month, and not unfrequentlv from year to year,
it is then the mind seeks relief: it wants enjoy
ment, for it is an active principle which will never,
which can never sleep; and the more intense the
suffering, the more active the spirit. Nothing can
chain it; it will work—it will ruminate upon the
by-gone seenes of joy and grief; lights and shades
pass over it. It receives consolation from its own
resources. The books studied, the lessons im
parted, sermons well digested, miscellany, lyrics,
poetry, history, &c., all serve to comfort and re
lieve the aching mind. Persons in distress can
overcome a thousand nameless evils, by reciting
or composing; such a train of thoughts overcomes
pain and lifts the soul above earth. How neces
sary to enrich the mind in early life “before the evil
days come.” It dies not with the body: it runs
parallel with God. It is a living, undying prin
ciple, and must he enriched here. The more it
knows of God, the more it will be like him : and
the better prepared for sublimer enjoyments
above. The soul that views God in all his works,
in every tree, shrub and flower, “sees him in
clouds and hears him in the winds.” With every
change, with every object, associates the Deity.
That soul lives a life truly great, and will rise high
in a purer clime, amid that bright constellation of
intellectual beings who worship continually before
the throne of God and the Lamb. Let the youth
attend to these things, and for a moment suspend
their anxiety for the outw r ard adornment of their
persons; and remember, a well educated mind is
a jewel far more estimable in the eyes of an in
telligent man, than the most beautiful exterior,
deficient of this treasure. Jt is the only source
of enjoyment here, and wall enhance their happi
ness in another and a brighter world.