Ten Nights in a Bar Room

Some of the consequences of tavern-keeping.

Nearly five years glided away before business again called me to Cedarville.  I knew little of what passed there in the interval, except that Simon Slade had actually been indicted for manslaughter, in causing the death of Morgan’s child.  He did not stand a trial, however, Judge Lyman having used his influence, successfully, in getting the indictment quashed.  The judge, some people said, interested himself in Slade more than was just seemly—­especially, as he had, on several occasions, in the discharge of his official duties, displayed what seemed an over-righteous indignation against individuals arraigned for petty offences.  The impression made upon me by Judge Lyman had not been favorable.  He seemed a cold, selfish, scheming man of the world.  That he was an unscrupulous politician, was plain to me, in a single evening’s observation of his sayings and doings among the common herd of a village bar-room.

As the stage rolled, with a gay flourish of our driver’s bugle, into the village, I noted here and there familiar objects, and marked the varied evidences of change.  Our way was past the elegant residence and grounds of Judge Hammond, the most beautiful and highly cultivated in Cedarville.  At least, such it was regarded at the time of my previous visit.  But, the moment my eyes rested upon the dwelling and its various surroundings, I perceived an altered aspect.  Was it the simple work of time? or, had familiarity with other and more elegantly arranged suburban homes, marred this in my eyes by involuntary contrast?  Or had the hand of cultivation really been stayed, and the marring fingers of neglect suffered undisturbed to trace on every thing disfiguring characters?

Such questions were in my thoughts, when I saw a man in the large portico of the dwelling, the ample columns of which, capped in rich Corinthian, gave the edifice the aspect of a Grecian temple.  He stood leaning against one of the columns—­his hat off, and his long gray hair thrown back and resting lightly on his neck and shoulders.  His head was bent down upon his breast, and he seemed in deep abstraction.  Just as the coach swept by, he looked up, and in the changed features I recognized Judge Hammond.  His complexion was still florid, but his face had grown thin, and his eyes were sunken.  Trouble was written in every lineament.  Trouble?  How inadequately does the word express my meaning!  Ah! at a single glance, what a volume of suffering was opened to the gazer’s eye.  Not lightly had the foot of time rested there, as if treading on odorous flowers, but heavily, and with iron-shod heel.  This I saw at a glance; and then, only the image of the man was present to my inner vision, for the swiftly rolling stage-coach had borne me onward past the altered home of the wealthiest denizen of Cedarville.  In a few minutes our driver reined up before the “Sickle and Sheaf,” and as I stepped to the ground, a rotund, coarse, red-faced man, whom I failed to recognize as Simon Slade until he spoke, grasped my hand, and pronounced my name.  I could not but contrast, in thought, his appearance with what it was when I first saw him, some six years previously; nor help saying to myself: 

“So much for tavern-keeping!”

As marked a change was visible everywhere in and around the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  It, too, had grown larger by additions of wings and rooms; but it had also grown coarser in growing larger.  When built, all the doors were painted white, and the shutters green, giving to the house a neat, even tasteful appearance.  But the white and green had given place to a dark, dirty brown, that to my eyes was particularly unattractive.  The bar-room had been extended, and now a polished brass rod, or railing, embellished the counter, and sundry ornamental attractions had been given to the shelving behind the bar—­such as mirrors, gilding, etc.  Pictures, too, were hung upon the walls, or more accurately speaking; coarse colored lithographs, the subjects of which, if not really obscene, were flashing, or vulgar.  In the sitting-room, next to the bar, I noticed little change of objects, but much in their condition.  The carpet, chairs, and tables were the same in fact, but far from being the same in appearance.  The room had a close, greasy odor, and looked as if it had not been thoroughly swept and dusted for a week.

A smart young Irishman was in the bar, and handed me the book in which passenger’s names were registered.  After I had recorded mine, he directed my trunk to be carried to the room designated as the one I was to occupy.  I followed the porter, who conducted me to the chamber which had been mine at previous visits.  Here, too, were evidences of change; but not for the better.  Then the room was as sweet and clean as it could be; the sheets and pillow-cases as white as snow, and the furniture shining with polish.  Now all was dusty and dingy, the air foul, and the bed-linen scarcely whiter than tow.  No curtain made softer the light as it came through the window; nor would the shutters entirely keep out the glare, for several of the slats were broken.  A feeling of disgust came over me, at the close smell and foul appearance of everything; so, after washing my hands and face, and brushing the dust from my clothes, I went down stairs.  The sitting-room was scarcely more attractive than my chamber; so I went out upon the porch and took a chair.  Several loungers were here; hearty, strong-looking, but lazy fellows, who, if they had anything to do, liked idling better than working.  One of them leaned his chair back against the wall of the house, and was swinging his legs with a half circular motion, and humming “Old Folks at Home.”  Another sat astride of a chair, with his face turned toward, and his chin resting upon, the back.  He was in too lazy a condition of body and mind for motion or singing.  A third had slidden down in his chair, until he sat on his back, while his feet were elevated above his head, and rested against one of the pillars that supported the porch; while a fourth lay stretched out on a bench, sleeping, his hat over his face to protect him from buzzing and biting flies.

Though all but the sleeping man eyed me inquisitively, as I took my place among them, not one changed his position.  The rolling of eye-balls cost but little exertion; and with that effort they were contented.

“Hallo! who’s that?” one of these loungers suddenly exclaimed, as a man went swiftly by in a light sulky; and he started up, and gazed down the road, seeking to penetrate the cloud of dust which the fleet rider had swept up with hoofs and wheels.

“I didn’t see.”  The sleeping man aroused himself, rubbed his eyes, and gazed along the road.

“Who was it, Matthew?” The Irish bar-keeper now stood in the door.

“Willy Hammond,” was answered by Matthew.

“Indeed!  Is that his new three hundred dollar horse?”

“Yes.”

“My! but he’s a screamer!”

“Isn’t he!  Most as fast as his young master.”

“Hardly,” said one of the men, laughing.  “I don’t think anything in creation can beat Hammond.  He goes it with a perfect rush.”

“Doesn’t he!  Well; you may say what you please of him, he’s as good-hearted a fellow as ever walked; and generous to a fault.”

“His old dad will agree with you in the last remark,” said Matthew.

“No doubt of that, for he has to stand the bills,” was answered.

“Yes, whether he will or no, for I rather think Willy has, somehow or other, got the upper hand of him.”

“In what way?”

“It’s Hammond and Son, over at the mill and distillery.”

“I know; but what of that!”

“Willy was made the business man—­ostensibly—­in order, as the old man thought, to get him to feel the responsibility of the new position, and thus tame him down.”

“Tame him down!  Oh, dear!  It will take more than business to do that.  The curb was applied too late.”

“As the old gentleman has already discovered, I’m thinking, to his sorrow.”

“He never comes here any more; does he, Matthew?”

“Who?”

“Judge Hammond.”

“Oh, dear, no.  He and Slade had all sorts of a quarrel about a year ago, and he’s never darkened our doors since.”

“It was something about Willy and—.”  The speaker did not mention any name, but winked knowingly and tossed his head toward the entrance of the house, to indicate some member of Slade’s family.

“I believe so.”

“D’ye think Willy really likes her?”

Matthew shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer.

“She’s a nice girl,” was remarked in an under tone, “and good enough for Hammond’s son any day; though, if she were my daughter, I’d rather see her in Jericho than fond of his company.”

“He’ll have plenty of money to give her.  She can live like a queen.”

“For how long?”

“Hush!” came from the lips of Matthew.  “There she is now.”

I looked up, and saw at a short distance from the house, and approaching, a young lady, in whose sweet, modest face, I at once recognized Flora Slade, Five years had developed her into a beautiful woman.  In her alone, of all that appertained to Simon Slade, there was no deterioration.  Her eyes were as mild and pure as when first I met her at gentle sixteen, and her father said “My daughter,” with such a mingling of pride and affection in his tone.  She passed near where I was sitting, and entered the house.  A closer view showed me some marks of thought and suffering; but they only heightened the attraction of her face.  I failed not to observe the air of respect with which all returned her slight nod and smile of recognition.

“She’s a nice girl, and no mistake—­the flower of this flock,” was said, as soon as she passed into the house.

“Too good for Willy Hammond, in my opinion,” said Matthew.  “Clever and generous as people call him.”

“Just my opinion,” was responded.  “She’s as pure and good, almost, as an angel; and he?—­I can tell you what—­he’s not the clean thing.  He knows a little too much of the world—­on its bad side, I mean.”

The appearance of Slade put an end to this conversation.  A second observation of his person and countenance did not remove the first unfavorable impression.  His face had grown decidedly bad in expression, as well as gross and sensual.  The odor of his breath, as he took a chair close to where I was sitting, was that of one who drank habitually and freely; and the red, swimming eyes evidenced, too surely, a rapid progress toward the sad condition of a confirmed inebriate.  There was, too, a certain thickness of speech, that gave another corroborating sign of evil progress.

“Have you seen anything of Frank this afternoon?” he inquired of Matthew, after we had passed a few words.

“Nothing,” was the bar-keeper’s answer.

“I saw him with Tom Wilkins as I came over,” said one of the men who was sitting in the porch.

“What was he doing with Tom Wilkins?” said Slade, in a fretted tone of voice.  “He doesn’t seem very choice in his company.”

“They were gunning.”

“Gunning!”

“Yes.  They both had fowling-pieces.  I wasn’t near enough to ask where they were going.”

This information disturbed Slade a good deal.  After muttering to himself a little while, he started up and went into the house.

“And I could have told him a little more, had I been so inclined,” said the individual who mentioned the fact that Frank was with Tom Wilkins.

“What more?” inquired Matthew.

“There was a buggy in the case; and a champagne basket.  What the latter contained you can easily guess.”

“Whose buggy?”

“I don’t know anything about the buggy; but if ‘Lightfoot’ doesn’t sink in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a false prophet.”

“Oh, no,” said Matthew, incredulously.  “Frank wouldn’t do an outrageous thing like that.  Lightfoot won’t be in a condition to drive for a month to come.”

“I don’t care.  She’s out now; and the way she was putting it down when I saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy.”

“Where did he get her?” was inquired.

“She’s been in the six-acre field, over by Mason’s Bridge, for the last week or so,” Matthew answered.  “Well; all I have to say,” he added, “is that Frank ought to be slung up and well horse-whipped.  I never saw such a young rascal.  He cares for no good, and fears no evil.  He’s the worst boy I ever saw.”

“It would hardly do for you to call him a boy to his face,” said one of the men, laughing.

“I don’t have much to say to him in any way,” replied Matthew, “for I know very well that if we ever do get into a regular quarrel, there’ll be a hard time of it.  The same house will not hold us afterward—­that’s certain.  So I steer clear of the young reprobate.”

“I wonder his father don’t put him to some business,” was remarked.  “The idle life he now leads will be his ruin.”

“He was behind the bar for a year or two.”

“Yes; and was smart at mixing a glass—­but—­”

“Was himself becoming too good a customer?”

“Precisely.  He got drunk as a fool before reaching his fifteenth year.”

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, involuntarily.

“It’s true, sir,” said the last speaker, turning to me, “I never saw anything like it.  And this wasn’t all bar-room talk, which, as you may know, isn’t the most refined and virtuous in the world.  I wouldn’t like my son to hear much of it.  Frank was always an eager listener to everything that was said, and in a very short time became an adept in slang and profanity.  I’m no saint myself; but it’s often made my blood run cold to hear him swear.”

“I pity his mother,” said I; for my thought turned naturally to Mrs. Slade.

“You may well do that,” was answered.  “I doubt if Cedarville holds a sadder heart.  It was a dark day for her, let me tell you, when Simon Slade sold his mill and built this tavern.  She was opposed to it at the beginning.”

“I have inferred as much.”

“I know it,” said the man.  “My wife has been intimate with her for years.  Indeed, they have always been like sisters.  I remember very well her coming to our house, about the time the mill was sold, and crying about it as if her heart would break.  She saw nothing but sorrow and trouble ahead.  Tavern-keeping she had always regarded as a low business, and the change from a respectable miller to a lazy tavern-keeper, as she expressed it, was presented to her mind as something disgraceful.  I remember, very well, trying to argue the point with her—­assuming that it was quite as respectable to keep tavern as to do anything else; but I might as well have talked to the wind.  She was always a pleasant, hopeful, cheerful woman before that time, but, really, I don’t think I’ve seen a true smile on her face since.”

“That was a great deal for a man to lose,” said I.

“What?” he inquired, not clearly understanding me.

“The cheerfull face of his wife.”

“The face was but an index of her heart,” said he.

“So much the worse.”

“True enough for that.  Yes, it was a great deal to lose.

“What has he gained that will make up for this?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“What has he gained?” I repeated.  “Can you figure it up?”

“He’s a richer man, for one thing.”

“Happier?”

There was another shrug of the shoulders.  “I wouldn’t like to say that.”

“How much richer?”

“Oh, a great deal.  Somebody was saying, only yesterday, that he couldn’t be worth less than thirty thousand dollars.”

“Indeed?  So much.”

“Yes.”

“How has he managed to accumulate so rapidly?”

“His bar has a large run of custom.  And, you know, that pays wonderfully.”

“He must have sold a great deal of liquor in six years.”

“And he has.  I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that in the six years which have gone by since the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ was opened, more liquor has been drank than in the previous twenty years.”

“Say forty,” remarked a man who had been a listener to what we said.

“Let it be forty then,” was the according answer.

“How comes this?” I inquired.  “You had a tavern here before the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ was opened.”

“I know we had, and several places besides, where liquor was sold.  But, everybody far and near knew Simon Slade the miller, and everybody liked him.  He was a good miller, and a cheerful, social, chatty sort of man putting everybody in a good humor who came near him.  So it became the talk everywhere, when he built this house, which he fitted up nicer than anything that had been seen in these parts.  Judge Hammond, Judge Lyman, Lawyer Wilson, and all the big bugs of the place at once patronized the new tavern, and of course, everybody else did the same.  So, you can easily see how he got such a run.”

“It was thought, in the beginning,” said I, “that the new tavern was going to do wonders for Cedarville.”

“Yes,” answered the man laughing, “and so it has.”

“In what respect?”

“Oh, in many.  It has made some men richer, and some poorer.”

“Who has it made poorer?”

“Dozens of people.  You may always take it for granted, when you see a tavern-keeper who has a good run at his bar, getting rich, that a great many people are getting poor.”

“How so?” I wished to hear in what way the man who was himself, as was plain to see, a good customer at somebody’s bar, reasoned on the subject.

“He does not add to the general wealth.  He produces nothing.  He takes money from his customers, but gives them no article of value in return—­nothing that can be called property, personal or real.  He is just so much richer and they just so much poorer for the exchange.  Is it not so?”

I readily assented to the position as true, and then said—­

“Who, in particular, is poorer?”

“Judge Hammond, for one.”

“Indeed!  I thought the advance in his property, in consequence of the building of this tavern, was so great, that he was reaping a rich pecuniary harvest.”

“There was a slight advance in property along the street after the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ was opened, and Judge Hammond was benefited thereby.  Interested parties made a good deal of noise about it; but it didn’t amount to much, I believe.”

“What has caused the judge to grow poorer?”

“The opening of this tavern, as I just said.”

“In what way did it affect him?”

“He was among Slade’s warmest supporters, as soon as he felt the advance in the price of building lots, called him one of the most enterprising men in Cedarville—­a real benefactor to the place—­ and all that stuff.  To set a good example of patronage, he came over every day and took his glass of brandy, and encouraged everybody else that he could influence to do the same.  Among those who followed his example was his son Willy.  There was not, let me tell you, in all the country for twenty miles around, a finer young man than Willy, nor one of so much promise, when this man-trap”—­he let his voice fall, and glanced around, as he thus designated Slade’s tavern—­“was opened; and now, there is not one dashing more recklessly along the road to ruin.  When too late, his father saw that his son was corrupted, and that the company he kept was of a dangerous character.  Two reasons led him to purchase Slade’s old mill, and turn it into a factory and a distillery.  Of course, he had to make a heavy outlay for additional buildings, machinery, and distilling apparatus.  The reasons influencing him were the prospect of realizing a large amount of money, especially in distilling, and the hope of saving Willy, by getting him closely engaged and interested in business.  To accomplish, more certainly, the latter end, he unwisely transferred to his son, as his own capital, twenty thousand dollars, and then formed with him a regular copartnership—­giving Willy an active business control.

“But the experiment, sir,” added the man, emphatically, “has proved a failure.  I heard yesterday, that both mill and distillery were to be shut up, and offered for sale.”

“They did not prove as money-making as was anticipated?”

“No, not under Willy Hammond’s management.  He had made too many bad acquaintances—­men who clung to him because he had plenty of money at his command, and spent it as freely as water.  One-half of his time he was away from the mill, and while there, didn’t half attend to business.  I’ve heard it said—­and I don’t much doubt its truth—­that he’s squandered his twenty thousand dollars, and a great deal more besides.”

“How is that possible?”

“Well; people talk, and not always at random.  There’s been a man staying here, most of his time, for the last four or five years, named Green.  He does not do anything, and don’t seem to have any friends in the neighborhood.  Nobody knows where he came from, and he is not at all communicative on that head himself.  Well, this man became acquainted with young Hammond after Willy got to visiting the bar here, and attached himself to him at once.  They have, to all appearance, been fast friends ever since; riding about, or going off on gunning or fishing excursions almost every day, and secluding themselves somewhere nearly every evening.  That man, Green, sir, it is whispered, is a gambler; and I believe it.  Granted, and there is no longer a mystery as to what Willy does with his own and his father’s money.”

I readily assented to this view of the case.

“And so assuming that Green is a gambler,” said I, “he has grown richer, in consequence of the opening of a new and more attractive tavern in Cedarville.”

“Yes, and Cedarville is so much the poorer for all his gains; for I’ve never heard of his buying a foot of ground, or in any way encouraging productive industry.  He’s only a blood-sucker.”

“It is worse than the mere abstraction of money,” I remarked; “he corrupts his victims, at the same time that he robs them.”

“True.”

“Willy Hammond may not be his only victim,” I suggested.

“Nor is he, in my opinion.  I’ve been coming to this bar, nightly, for a good many years—­a sorry confession for a man to make, I must own,” he added, with a slight tinge of shame; “but so it is.  Well, as I was saying, I’ve been coming to this bar, nightly, for a good many years, and I generally see all that is going on around me.  Among the regular visitors are at least half a dozen young men, belonging to our best families—­who have been raised with care, and well educated.  That their presence here is unknown to their friends, I am quite certain—­or, at least, unknown and unsuspected by some of them.  They do not drink a great deal yet; but all try a glass or two.  Toward nine o’clock, often at an earlier hour, you will see one and another of them go quietly out of the bar, through the sitting-room, preceded, or soon followed, by Green and Slade.  At any hour of the night, up to one or two, and sometimes three o’clock, you can see light streaming through the rent in a curtain drawn before a particular window, which I know to be in the room of Harvey Green.  These are facts, sir; and you can draw your own conclusion.  I think it a very serious matter.”

“Why does Slade go out with these young men?” I inquired.  “Do you think he gambles also?”

“If he isn’t a kind of a stool-pigeon for Harvey Green, then I’m mistaken again.”

“Hardly.  He cannot, already, have become so utterly unprincipled.”

“It’s a bad school, sir, this tavern-keeping,” said the man.

“I readily grant you that.”

“And it’s nearly seven years since he commenced to take lessons.  A great deal may be learned, sir, of good or evil, in seven years, especially if any interest be taken in the studies.”

“True.”

“And it’s true in this case, you may depend upon it.  Simon Slade is not the man he was, seven years ago.  Anybody with half an eye can see that.  He’s grown selfish, grasping, unscrupulous, and passionate.  There could hardly be a greater difference between men than exists between Simon Slade the tavern-keeper, and Simon Slade the miller.”

“And intemperate, also?” I suggested.

“He’s beginning to take a little too much,” was answered.

“In that case, he’ll scarcely be as well off five years hence as he is now.”

“He’s at the top of the wheel, some of us think.”

“What has led to this opinion?”

“He’s beginning to neglect his house, for one thing.”

“A bad sign.”

“And there is another sign.  Heretofore, he has always been on hand, with the cash, when desirable property went off, under forced sale, at a bargain.  In the last three or four months, several great sacrifices have been made, but Simon Slade showed no inclination to buy.  Put this fact against another,—­week before last, he sold a house and lot in the town for five hundred dollars less than he paid for them, a year ago—­and for just that sum less than their true value.”

“How came that?” I inquired.

“Ah! there’s the question!  He wanted money; though for what purpose he has not intimated to any one, as far as I can learn.”

“What do you think of it?”

“Just this.  He and Green have been hunting together in times past; but the professed gambler’s instincts are too strong to let him spare even his friend in evil.  They have commenced playing one against the other.”

“Ah! you think so?”

“I do; and if I conjecture rightly, Simon Slade will be a poorer man, in a year from this time, than he is now.”

Here our conversation was interrupted.  Some one asked my talkative friend to go and take a drink, and he, nothing loath, left me without ceremony.

Very differently served was the supper I partook of on that evening, from the one set before me on the occasion of my first visit to the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  The table-cloth was not merely soiled, but offensively dirty; the plates, cups, and saucers, dingy and sticky; the knives and forks unpolished; and the food of a character to satisfy the appetite with a very few mouthfuls.  Two greasy-looking Irish girls waited on the table, at which neither landlord nor landlady presided.  I was really hungry when the supper-bell rang; but the craving of my stomach soon ceased in the atmosphere of the dining-room, and I was the first to leave the table.

Soon after the lamps were lighted, company began to assemble in the spacious bar-room, where were comfortable seats, with tables, newspapers, backgammon boards, dominoes, etc.  The first act of nearly every one who came in was to call for a glass of liquor; and sometimes the same individual drank two or three times in the course of half an hour, on the invitation of new comers who were convivially inclined.

Most of those who came in were strangers to me.  I was looking from face to face to see if any of the old company were present, when one countenance struck me as familiar.  I was studying it, in order, if possible, to identify the person, when some one addressed him as “Judge.”

Changed as the face was, I now recognized it as that of Judge Lyman.  Five years had marred that face terribly.  It seemed twice the former size; and all its bright expression was gone.  The thickened and protruding eyelids half closed the leaden eyes, and the swollen lips and cheeks gave to his countenance a look of all predominating sensuality.  True manliness had bowed itself in debasing submission to the bestial.  He talked loudly, and with a pompous dogmatism—­mainly on political subjects—­but talked only from memory; for any one could see, that thought came into but feeble activity.  And yet, derationalized, so to speak, as he was, through drink, he had been chosen a representative in Congress, at the previous election, on the anti-temperance ticket, and by a very handsome majority.  He was the rum candidate; and the rum interest, aided by the easily swayed “indifferents,” swept aside the claims of law, order, temperance, and good morals; and the district from which he was chosen as a National Legislator sent him up to the National Councils, and said in the act—­“Look upon him we have chosen as our representative, and see in him a type of our principles, our quality, and our condition, as a community.”

Judge Lyman, around whom a little circle soon gathered, was very severe on the temperance party, which, for two years, had opposed his election, and which, at the last struggle, showed itself to be a rapidly growing organization.  During the canvass, a paper was published by this party, in which his personal habits, character, and moral principles were discussed in the freest manner, and certainly not in a way to elevate him in the estimation of men whose opinion was of any value.

It was not much to be wondered at, that he assumed to think temperance issues at the polls were false issues; and that when temperance men sought to tamper with elections, the liberties of the people were in danger; nor that he pronounced the whole body of temperance men as selfish schemers and canting hypocrites.

“The next thing we will have,” he exclaimed, warming with his theme, and speaking so loud that his voice sounded throughout the room, and arrested every one’s attention, “will be laws to fine any man who takes a chew of tobacco, or lights a cigar.  Touch the liberties of the people in the smallest particular, and all guarantees are gone.  The Stamp Act, against which our noble forefathers rebelled, was a light measure of oppression to that contemplated by these worse than fanatics.”

“You are right there, judge; right for once in your life, if you (hic) were never right before!” exclaimed a battered-looking specimen of humanity, who stood near the speaker, slapping Judge Lyman on the shoulder familiarly as he spoke.  “There’s no telling what they will do.  There’s (hic) my old uncle Josh Wilson, who’s been keeper of the Poor-house these ten years.  Well, they’re going to turn him out, if ever they get the upper hand in Bolton county.”

“If?  That word involves a great deal, Harry!” said Lyman.  “We mus’n’t let them get the upper hand.  Every man has a duty to perform to his country in this matter, and every one must do his duty.  But what have they got against your Uncle Joshua?  What has he been doing to offend this righteous party?”

“They’ve nothing against him, (hic) I believe.  Only, they say, they’re not going to have a Poor-house in the county at all.”

“What!  Going to turn the poor wretches out to starve?” said one.

“Oh no! (hic),” and the fellow grinned, half shrewdly and half maliciously, as he answered—­“no, not that.  But, when they carry the day, there’ll be no need of Poor-houses.  At least, that’s their talk—­and I guess maybe there’s something in it, for I never knew a man to go to the Poor-house, who hadn’t (hic) rum to blame for his poverty.  But, you see, I’m interested in this matter.  I go for keeping up the Poor-house (hic); for I guess I’m travelling that road, and I shouldn’t like to get to the last milestone (hic) and find no snug quarters—­no Uncle Josh.  You’re safe for one vote, any how, old chap, on next election day!” And the man’s broad hand slapped the member’s shoulder again.  “Huzza for the rummies!  That’s (hic) the ticket!  Harry Grimes never deserts his friends.  True as steel!”

“You’re a trump!” returned Judge Lyman, with low familiarity.  “Never fear about the Poor-house and Uncle Josh.  They’re all safe.”

“But look here, judge,” resumed the man.  “It isn’t only the Poor-house, the jail is to go next.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, that’s their talk; and I guess they ain’t far out of the way, neither.  What takes men to jail?  You can tell us something about that, judge, for you’ve jugged a good many in your time.  Didn’t pretty much all of ’em drink rum (hic)?”

But the judge answered nothing.

“Silence (hic) gives consent,” resumed Grimes.  “And they say more; once give ’em the upper hand—­and they’re confident of beating us —­and the Courthouse will be to let.  As for judges and lawyers, they’ll starve, or go into some better business.  So you see, (hic) judge, your liberties are in danger.  But fight hard, old fellow; and if you must die, (hic) die game!”

How well Judge Lyman relished this mode of presenting the case, was not very apparent; he was too good a politician and office-seeker, to show any feeling on the subject, and thus endanger a vote.  Harry Grimes’ vote counted one, and a single vote sometimes gained or lost an election.

“One of their gags,” he said, laughing.  “But I’m too old a stager not to see the flimsiness of such pretensions.  Poverty and crime have their origin in the corrupt heart, and their foundations are laid long and long before the first step is taken on the road to inebriety.  It is easy to promise results; for only the few look at causes, and trace them to their effects.”

“Rum and ruin (hic).  Are they not cause and effect?” asked Grimes.

“Sometimes they are,” was the half extorted answer.

“Oh, Green, is that you?” exclaimed the judge, as Harvey Green came in with a soft cat-like step.  He was, evidently, glad of a chance to get rid of his familiar friend and elector.

I turned my eyes upon the man, and read his face closely.  It was unchanged.  The same cold, sinister eye; the same chiselled mouth, so firm now, and now yielding so elastically; the same smile “from the teeth outward”—­the same lines that revealed his heart’s deep, dark selfishness.  If he had indulged in drink during the five intervening years, it had not corrupted his blood, nor added thereto a single degree of heat.

“Have you seen anything of Hammond this evening?” asked Judge Lyman.

“I saw him an hour or two ago,” answered Green.

“How does he like his new horse?”

“He’s delighted with him.”

“What was the price?”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“Indeed!”

The judge had already arisen, and he and Green were now walking side by side across the bar-room floor.

“I want to speak a word with you,” I heard Lyman say.

And then the two went out together.  I saw no more of them during the evening.

Not long afterward, Willy Hammond came in.  Ah! there was a sad change here; a change that in no way belied the words of Matthew the bar-keeper.  He went up to the bar, and I heard him ask for Judge Lyman.  The answer was in so low a voice that it did not reach my ear.

With a quick, nervous motion, Hammond threw his hand toward a row of decanters on the shelf behind the bar-keeper, who immediately set one of them containing brandy before him.  From this he poured a tumbler half full, and drank it off at a single draught, unmixed with water.

He then asked some further question, which I could not hear, manifesting, as it appeared, considerable excitement of mind.  In answering him, Matthew glanced his eyes upward, as if indicating some room in the house.  The young man then retired, hurriedly, through the sitting-room.

“What’s the matter with Willy Hammond tonight?” asked some one of the bar-keeper.  “Who’s he after in such a hurry?”

“He wants to see Judge Lyman,” replied Matthew.

“Oh!”

“I guess they’re after no good,” was remarked.

“Not much, I’m afraid.”

Two young men, well dressed, and with faces marked by intelligence, came in at the moment, drank at the bar, chatted a little while familiarly with the bar-keeper, and then quietly disappeared through the door leading into the sitting-room.  I met the eyes of the man with whom I had talked during the afternoon, and his knowing wink brought to mind his suggestion, that in one of the upper rooms gambling went on nightly, and that some of the most promising young men of the town had been drawn, through the bar attraction, into this vortex of ruin.  I felt a shudder creeping along my nerves.

The conversation that now went on among the company was of such an obscene and profane character that, in disgust, I went out.  The night was clear, the air soft, and the moon shining down brightly.  I walked for some time in the porch, musing on what I had seen and heard; while a constant stream of visitors came pouring into the bar-room.  Only a few of these remained.  The larger portion went in quickly, took their glass, and then left, as if to avoid observation as much as possible.

Soon after I commenced walking in the porch, I noticed an elderly lady go slowly by, who, in passing, slightly paused, and evidently tried to look through the bar-room door.  The pause was but for an instant.  In less than ten minutes she came back, again stopped—­ this time longer—­and again moved off slowly, until she passed out of sight.  I was yet thinking about her, when, on lifting my eyes from the ground, she was advancing along the road, but a few rods distant.  I almost started at seeing her, for there no longer remained a doubt on my mind, that she was some trembling, heartsick woman, in search of an erring son, whose feet were in dangerous paths.  Seeing me, she kept on, though lingeringly.  She went but a short distance before returning; and this time, she moved in closer to the house, and reached a position that enabled her eyes to range through a large portion of the bar-room.  A nearer inspection appeared to satisfy her.  She retired with quicker steps; and did not again return during the evening.

Ah! what a commentary upon the uses of an attractive tavern was here!  My heart ached, as I thought of all that unknown mother had suffered, and was doomed to suffer.  I could not shut out the image of her drooping form as I lay upon my pillow that night; she even haunted me in my dreams.