Ten Nights in a Bar Room

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.