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Ten Nights in a Bar Room

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Ten Nights in a Bar Room




"I never could just make out," said the bar-keeper, "how he ever
came to owe Judge Lyman so much. I've never known of any business
transactions between them."

"It's been dog eat dog, I rather guess," said the man.

"What do you mean by that?" inquired the bar-keeper.

"You've heard of dogs hunting in pairs?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, since Harvey Green got his deserts, the business of
fleecing our silly young fellows, who happened to have more money
than wit or discretion, has been in the hands of Judge Lyman and
Slade. They hunted together, Slade holding the game, while the
judge acted as blood-sucker. But that business was interrupted
about a year ago; and game got so scarce that, as I suggested, dog
began to eat dog. And here comes the end of the matter, if I'm not
mistaken. So mix us a stiff toddy. I want one more good drink at
the 'Sickle and Sheaf,' before the colors are struck."

And the man chuckled at his witty effort.

During the day, I learned that affairs stood pretty much as this
man had conjectured. Lyman's suits had been on sundry notes
payable on demand; but nobody knew of any property transactions
between him and Slade. On the part of Slade, no defense had been
made--the suit going by default. The visit of the sheriff's
officer was for the purpose of serving an execution.

As I walked through Cedarville on that day, the whole aspect of
the place seemed changed. I questioned with myself, often, whether
this were really so, or only the effect of imagination. The change
was from cheerfulness and thrift, to gloom and neglect. There was,
to me, a brooding silence in the air; a pause in the life-
movement; a folding of the hands, so to speak, because hope had
failed from the heart. The residence of Mr. Harrison, who, some
two years before, had suddenly awakened to a lively sense of the
evil of rum-selling, because his own sons were discovered to be in
danger, had been one of the most tasteful in Cedarville. I had
often stopped to admire the beautiful shrubbery and flowers with
which it was surrounded; the walks so clear--the borders so fresh
and even--the arbors so cool and inviting. There was not a spot
upon which the eye could rest, that did not show the hand of
taste. When I now came opposite to this house, I was not longer in
doubt as to the actuality of a change. There were no marked
evidences of neglect; but the high cultivation and nice regard for
the small details were lacking. The walks were cleanly swept; but
the box-borders were not so carefully trimmed. The vines and
bushes that in former times were cut and tied so evenly, could
hardly have felt the keen touch of the pruning-knife for months.

As I paused to note the change, a lady, somewhat beyond the middle
age, came from the house. I was struck by the deep gloom that
overshadowed her countenance. Ah! said I to myself, as I passed
on, how many dear hopes, that once lived in that heart, must have
been scattered to the winds. As I conjectured, this was Mrs.
Harrison, and I was not unprepared to hear, as I did a few hours
afterward, that her two sons had fallen into drinking habits; and,
not only this, had been enticed to the gaming-table. Unhappy
mother! What a life-time of wretchedness was compressed for thee
into a few short years!

I walked on, noting, here and there, changes even more marked than
appeared about the residence of Mr. Harrison. Judge Lyman's
beautiful place showed utter neglect; and so did one or two others
that, on my first visit to Cedarville, charmed me with their
order, neatness, and cultivation. In every instance, I learned, on
inquiring, that the owners of these, or some members of their
families, were, or had been, visitors at the "Sickle and Sheaf";
and that the ruin, in progress or completed, began after the
establishment of that point of attraction in the village.

Something of a morbid curiosity, excited by what I saw, led me on
to take a closer view of the residence of Judge Hammond than I had
obtained on the day before. The first thing that I noticed, on
approaching the old, decaying mansion, were handbills, posted on
the gate, the front-door, and on one of the windows. A nearer
inspection revealed their import. The property had been seized,
and was now offered at sheriff's sale!

Ten years before, Judge Hammond was known as the richest man in
Cedarville; and now, the homestead which he had once so loved to
beautify--where all that was dearest to him in life once gathered
--worn, disfigured, and in ruins, was about to be wrested from
him. I paused at the gate, and leaning over it, looked in with
saddened feelings upon the dreary waste within. No sign of life
was visible. The door was shut--the windows closed--not the
faintest wreath of smoke was seen above the blackened chimney-
tops. How vividly did imagination restore the life, and beauty,
and happiness, that made their home there only a few years
before,--the mother and her noble boy, one looking with trembling
hope, the other with joyous confidence, into the future,--the
father, proud of his household treasures, but not their wise and
jealous guardian.

Ah! that his hands should have unbarred the door, and thrown it
wide, for the wolf to enter that precious fold! I saw them all in
their sunny life before me; yet, even as I looked upon them, their
sky began to darken. I heard the distant mutterings of the storm,
and soon the desolating tempest swept down fearfully upon them. I
shuddered as it passed away, to look upon the wrecks left
scattered around. What a change!

"And all this," said I, "that one man, tired of being useful, and
eager to get gain, might gather in accursed gold!"

Pushing open the gate, I entered the yard, and walked around the
dwelling, my footsteps echoing in the hushed solitude of the
deserted place. Hark! was that a human voice?

I paused to listen.

The sound came, once more, distinctly to my ears, I looked around,
above, everywhere, but perceived no living sign. For nearly a
minute I stood still, listening. Yes; there it was again--a low,
moaning voice, as of one in pain or grief. I stepped onward a few
paces; and now saw one of the doors standing ajar. As I pushed
this door wide open, the moan was repeated. Following the
direction from which the sound came, I entered one of the large
drawing-rooms. The atmosphere was stifling, and all as dark as if
it were midnight. Groping my way to a window, I drew back the bolt
and threw open the shutter. Broadly the light fell across the
dusty, uncarpeted floor, and on the dingy furniture of the room.
As it did so, the moaning voice which had drawn me thither swelled
on the air again; and now I saw, lying upon an old sofa, the form
of a man. It needed no second glance to tell me that this was
Judge Hammond. I put my hand upon him, and uttered his name; but
he answered not. I spoke more firmly, and slightly shook him; but
only a piteous moan was returned.

"Judge Hammond!" I now called aloud, and somewhat imperatively.

But it availed nothing. The poor old man aroused not from the
stupor in which mind and body were enshrouded

"He is dying!" thought I; and instantly left the house in search
of some friends to take charge of him in his last, sad extremity.
The first person to whom I made known the fact shrugged his
shoulders, and said it was no affair of his, and that I must find
somebody whose business it was to attend to him. My next
application was met in the same spirit; and no better success
attended my reference of the matter to a third party. No one to
whom I spoke seemed to have any sympathy for the broken-down old
man. Shocked by this indifference, I went to one of the county
officers, who, on learning the condition of Judge Hammond, took
immediate steps to have him removed to the Alms-house, some miles
distant.

"But why to the Alms-house?" I inquired, on learning his purpose.
"He has property."

"Everything has been seized for debt," was the reply.

"Will there be nothing left after his creditors are satisfied?"

"Very few, if any, will be satisfied," he answered. "There will
not be enough to pay half the judgments against him."

"And is there no friend to take him in,--no one, of all who moved
by his side in the days of prosperity, to give a few hours'
shelter, and soothe the last moments of his unhappy life?"

"Why did you make application here?" was the officer's significant
question.

I was silent.

"Your earnest appeals for the poor old man met with no words of
sympathy?"

"None."

"He has, indeed, fallen low. In the days of his prosperity, he had
many friends, so called. Adversity has shaken them all like dead
leaves from sapless branches."

"But why? This is not always so."

"Judge Hammond was a selfish, worldly man. People never liked him
much. His favoring, so strongly, the tavern of Slade, and his
distillery operations, turned from him some of his best friends.
The corruption and terrible fate of his son--and the insanity and
death of his wife--all were charged upon him in people's minds,
and every one seemed to turn from him instinctively after the
fearful tragedy was completed. He never held tip his head
afterward. Neighbors shunned him as they would a criminal. And
here has come the end at last. He will be taken to the poorhouse,
to die there--a pauper!"

"And all," said I, partly speaking to myself, "because a man, too
lazy to work at an honest calling, must needs go to rum-selling."

"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," remarked
the officer with emphasis, as he turned from me to see that his
directions touching the removal of Mr. Hammond to the poor-house
were promptly executed.

In my wanderings about Cedarville during that day, I noticed a
small but very neat cottage, a little way from the centre of the
village. There was not around it a great profusion of flowers and
shrubbery; but the few vines, flowers, and bushes that grew green
and flourishing about the door, and along the clean walks, added
to the air of taste and comfort that so peculiarly marked the
dwelling.

"Who lives in that pleasant little spot?" I asked of a man whom I
had frequently seen in Blade's bar-room. He happened to be passing
the house at the same time that I was.

"Joe Morgan," was answered.

"Indeed!" I spoke in some surprise. "And what of Morgan? How is he
doing?"

"Very well."

"Doesn't he drink?"

"No. Since the death of his child, be has never taken a drop. That
event sobered him, and he has remained sober ever since."

"What is he doing?" "Working at his old trade."

"That of a miller?"

"Yes. After Judge Hammond broke down, the distillery apparatus and
cotton spinning machinery were all sold and removed from
Cedarville. The purchaser of what remained, having something of
the fear of God, as well as regard for man, in his heart, set
himself to the restoration of the old order of things, and in due
time the revolving mill-wheel was at its old and better work of
grinding corn and wheat for bread. The only two men in Cedarville
competent to take charge of the mill were Simon Slade and Joe
Morgan. The first could not be had, and the second came in as a
matter of course."

"And he remains sober and industrious?"

"As any man in the village," was the answer.

I saw but little of Slade or his son during the day. But both were
in the bar-room at night, and both in a condition sorrowful to
look upon. Their presence, together, in the bar-room, half
intoxicated as they were, seemed to revive the unhappy temper of
the previous evening, as freshly as if the sun had not risen and
set upon their anger.

During the early part of the evening, considerable company was
present, though not of a very select class. A large proportion
were young men. To most of them the fact that Slade had fallen
into the sheriff's hands was known; and I gathered from some aside
conversation which reached my ears, that Frank's idle, spendthrift
habits had hastened the present crisis in his father's affairs.
He, too, was in debt to Judge Lyman--on what account, it was not
hard to infer.

It was after nine o'clock, and there were not half a dozen persons
in the room, when I noticed Frank Slade go behind the bar for the
third or fourth time. He was just lifting a decanter of brandy,
when his father, who was considerably under the influence of
drink, started forward, and laid his hand upon that of his son.
Instantly a fierce light gleamed from the eyes of the young man.

"Let go of my hand!" he exclaimed.

"No, I won't. Put up that brandy bottle--you're drunk now."

"Don't meddle with me, old man!" angrily retorted Frank. "I'm not
in the mood to bear anything more from YOU."

"You're drunk as a fool now," returned Slade, who had seized the
decanter. "Let go the bottle."

For only an instant did the young man hesitate. Then he drove his
half-clenched hand against the breast of his father, who went
staggering several paces from the counter. Recovering himself, and
now almost furious, the landlord rushed forward upon his son, his
hand raised to strike him.

"Keep off!" cried Frank. "Keep off! If you touch me, I'll strike
you down!" At the same time raising the half-filled bottle
threateningly.

But his father was in too maddened a state to fear any
consequences, and so pressed forward upon his son, striking him in
the face the moment he came near enough to do so.

Instantly, the young man, infuriated by drink and evil passions,
threw the bottle at his father's head. The dangerous missile fell,
crashing upon one of his temples, shivering it into a hundred
pieces. A heavy, jarring fall too surely marked the fearful
consequences of the blow. When we gathered around the fallen man,
and made an effort to lift him from the floor, a thrill of horror
went through every heart. A mortal paleness was already on his
marred face, and the death-gurgle in his throat! In three minutes
from the time the blow was struck, his spirit had gone upward to
give an account of the deeds done in the body.

"Frank Slade! you have murdered your father!"

Sternly were these terrible words uttered. It was some time before
the young man seemed to comprehend their meaning. But the moment
he realized the awful truth, he uttered an exclamation of horror.
Almost at the same instant, a pistol-shot came sharply on the ear.
But the meditated self-destruction was not accomplished. The aim
was not surely taken; and the ball struck harmlessly against the
ceiling.

Half an hour afterward, and Frank Slade was a lonely prisoner in
the county jail!

Does the reader need a word of comment on this fearful
consummation? No; and we will offer none.





NIGHT THE TENTH.

THE CLOSING SCENE AT THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."


On the day that succeeded the evening of this fearful tragedy,
placards were to be seen all over the village, announcing a mass
meeting at the "Sickle and Sheaf" that night.

By early twilight, the people commenced assembling. The bar, which
had been closed all day, was now thrown open, and lighted; and in
this room, where so much of evil had been originated, encouraged
and consummated, a crowd of earnest-looking men were soon
gathered. Among them I saw the fine person of Mr. Hargrove. Joe
Morgan--or rather, Mr. Morgan--was also one of the number. The
latter I would scarcely have recognized, had not some one near me
called him by name. He was well dressed, stood erect, and though
there were many deep lines on his thoughtful countenance, all
traces of his former habits were gone. While I was observing him,
he arose, and addressing a few words to the assemblage, nominated
Mr. Hargrove as chairman of the meeting. To this a unanimous
assent was given.

On taking the chair, Mr. Hargrove made a brief address, something
to this effect.

"Ten years ago," said he, his voice evincing a slight unsteadiness
as he began, but growing firmer as he proceeded, "there was not a
happier spot in Bolton county than Cedarville. Now, the marks of
ruin are everywhere. Ten years ago, there was a kind-hearted,
industrious miller in Cedarville, liked by every one, and as
harmless as a little child. Now, his bloated, disfigured body lies
in that room. His death was violent, and by the hand of his own
son!"

Mr. Hargrove's words fell slowly, distinctly, and marked by the
most forcible emphasis. There was scarcely one present who did not
feel a low shudder run along his nerves, as the last words were
spoken in a husky whisper.

"Ten years ago," he proceeded, "the miller had a happy wife, and
two innocent, glad-hearted children. Now, his wife, bereft of
reason, is in a mad-house, and his son the occupant of a felon's
cell, charged with the awful crime of parricide!"

Briefly he paused, while his audience stood gazing upon him with
half-suspended respiration.

"Ten years ago," he went on, "Judge Hammond was accounted the
richest man in Cedarville. Yesterday he was carried, a friendless
pauper, to the Alms-house; and to-day he is the unmourned occupant
of a pauper's grave! Ten years ago, his wife was the proud,
hopeful, loving mother of a most promising son. I need not
describe what Willy Hammond was. All here knew him well. Ah! what
shattered the fine intellect of that noble-minded woman? Why did
her heart break? Where is she? Where is Willy Hammond?"

A low, half-repressed groan answered the speaker.

"Ten years ago, you, sir," pointing to a sad-looking old man, and
calling him by name, "had two sons--generous, promising, manly-
hearted boys. What are they now? You need not answer the question.
Too well is their history and your sorrow known. Ten years ago, I
had a son,--amiable, kind, loving, but weak. Heaven knows how I
sought to guard and protect him! But he fell also. The arrows of
destruction darkened the very air of our once secure and happy
village. And who is safe? Not mine, nor yours!

"Shall I go on? Shall I call up and pass in review before you, one
after another, all the wretched victims who have fallen in
Cedarville during the last ten years? Time does not permit. It
would take hours for the enumeration! No; I will not throw
additional darkness into the picture. Heaven knows it is black
enough already! But what is the root of this great evil? Where
lies the fearful secret? Who understands the disease? A direful
pestilence is in the air--it walketh in darkness, and wasteth at
noonday. It is slaying the first-born in our houses, and the cry
of anguish is swelling on every gale. Is there no remedy?"

"Yes! yes! There is a remedy!" was the spontaneous answer from
many voices.

"Be it our task, then, to find and apply it this night," answered
the chairman, as he took his seat.

"And there is but one remedy," said Morgan, as Mr. Hargrove sat
down. "The accursed traffic must cease among us. You must cut off
the fountain, if you would dry up the stream. If you would save
the young, the weak, and the innocent--on you God has laid the
solemn duty of their protection--you must cover them from the
tempter. Evil is strong, wily, fierce, and active in the pursuit
of its ends. The young, the weak, and the innocent can no more
resist its assaults, than the lamb can resist the wolf. They are
helpless, if you abandon them to the powers of evil. Men and
brethren! as one who has himself been well-nigh lost--as one who,
daily, feels and trembles at the dangers that beset his path--I do
conjure you to stay the fiery stream that is bearing every thing
good and beautiful among you to destruction. Fathers! for the sake
of your young children, be up now and doing. Think of Willy
Hammond, Frank Slade, and a dozen more whose names I could repeat,
and hesitate no longer! Let us resolve, this night, that from
henceforth the traffic shall cease in Cedarville. Is there not a
large majority of citizens in favor of such a measure? And whose
rights or interests can be affected by such a restriction? Who, in
fact, has any right to sow disease and death in our community? The
liberty, under sufferance, to do so, wrongs the individual who
uses it, as well as those who become his victims. Do you want
proof of this? Look at Simon Slade, the happy, kind-hearted
miller; and at Simon Slade, the tavern-keeper. Was he benefited by
the liberty to work harm to his neighbor? No! no! In heaven's
name, then, let the traffic cease! To this end, I offer these
resolutions:--

"Be it resolved by the inhabitants of Cedarville, That from this
day henceforth, no more intoxicating drink shall be sold within
the limits of the corporation.

"Resolved, further, That all the liquors in the 'Sickle and Sheaf'
be forthwith destroyed, and that a fund be raised to pay the
creditors of Simon Slade therefor, should they demand
compensation.

"Resolved, That in closing up all other places where liquor is
sold, regard shall be had to the right of property which the law
secures to every man.

"Resolved, That with the consent of the legal authorities, all the
liquor for sale in Cedarville be destroyed, provided the owners
thereof be paid its full value out of a fund specially raised for
that purpose."

But for the calm yet resolute opposition of one or two men, these
resolutions would have passed by acclamation. A little sober
argument showed the excited company that no good end is ever
secured by the adoption of wrong means.

There were, in Cedarville, regularly constituted authorities,
which alone had the power to determine public measures, or to say
what business might or might not be pursued by individuals. And
through these authorities they must act in an orderly way.

There was some little chafing at this view of the case. But good
sense and reason prevailed. Somewhat modified, the resolutions
passed, and the more ultra-inclined contented themselves with
carrying out the second resolution, to destroy forthwith all the
liquor to be found on the premises; which was immediately done.
After which the people dispersed to their homes, each with a
lighter heart, and better hopes for the future of their village.

On the next day, as I entered the stage that was to bear me from
Cedarville, I saw a man strike his sharp axe into the worn, faded,
and leaning post that had, for so many years, borne aloft the
"Sickle and Sheaf"; and, just as the driver gave word to his
horses, the false emblem which had invited so many to enter the
way of destruction, fell crashing to the earth.

THE END.

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