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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.