Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, June 09, 1859, Image 1
lewism' grist^proprietor.} . An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. {??peeahitomihabvahce.
VOL 5. YOEKVILLE, S. O.,, THURSDAY, JUNE 9,1859. NO. 23.
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%u Original
For the Yorkville Enquirer.
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH
BY THE AUTHOR OF "GRACE TEMPLETOJf," "THE
WIFE," AND OTHER TALES.
CHAPTER I.
"What sickly sentimentalism ! Edwarl,
pray listea :
" 'She loved hitn passionately, ardently, devotedly.
Passionately, for she had inherited
from her land of the sunny South a heart
that would have beat too warmly, pulses that
might have throbbed too wisely, had they
not been chastened by upright principles and
a shrinking maidenly modesty. Ardently,
for his beiDg was her life, his smile her sunshine,
while her very soul seemed to hold
strange communion with his, and sickened
if the sympathy she craved was not extended.
Devotedly, for what was life without
him to share it ??pleasure had no charms if
he were absent, and sorrow and pain were
robbed of their sting, if he was her comforter
and hersolace.'"
"Pshaw! it makes me sick, to reaiLsuch
folly," exclaimed Clara.
"Why, Clara ! Are you skeptical as to
the truth of it ?"
"Skeptical! Surely Edward, you do not
believe in such nonsense ?"
"If you call fotfenonsense, I must confess
I do, when I think of you."
"Oh yes!" replied Clara, "ofcourse, love
in the common acceptation of the term."
"What do you mean by the common acceptation
?" said Edward. ,
"The common sense definition, the plain
matter of fact <1 love you.' "
"That is, Clara?"
"Why that is" replied Clara laughing,
"I esteem you highly, admire your character
and disposition, the sentiment you have inspired
me with is a feeling stronger than
friendship, in short, you suit me exactly;
consequently?I love you?that is what I
call the common sense definition. But what
is the matter Edward, have I offended you ?
Why do you look so concerned?you cannot
surely doubt my love ?"
"The position you occupy as my wife,
might seem to forbid it," said Edward smiling,
"and apart from the position, Clara, I
have too much* fconfidence in your truthfulness
to doubt your partiality." ?
"Thank you, Edward, and believe me you
shall never have cause to regret that confidence
; and if I confess that I could exist
even were I doomed to an indefinite period
i i- 1 - v . xi : ...
ot absence, ana acKnowieage mere is uu supernatural
soul-communing between us, you
must not judge your welfare is indifferent to
me, or, that I am incapable of sympathy.?
So, lay aside that sober look and tell me
where your thoughts are wandering."
"Well, put down your boob, Clara, and
come and sit beside me, and at the risk of
being called 'sentimental,' I will."
The young wife took her seat beside him
with some wonder, and a slight degree of
timidity in her manner.
"You do not fear me, Clara ?" said he, as
he drew her towards him. She looked up
in his face with a frank sunny smile, and
placing her hand in his, seemed to give chat
as an earnest of her confidence.
''Now listen, my little bride, while I make
a confession. I am not very young as you
may see, if you look at the silver threads
that intersperse these elf locks of mine. I
think, Clara, I must have been in the first
flush of manhood when you reposed, a tiny
thing, in your mother's arms. Let me see,
how old are you?"
"I was seventeen last May," she replied.
"Seventeen ! Is that all ? yet quite a mature
age for a May flower," he said, smiling
at her look of half serious reproach. "And
I am a little more than double that. You
need not look so enquiringly, I am not going
to tell you my age, lest you cry 'so much as
that 1' I was always disposed to be shy and
reserved, and from the fact of having no sisters,
and losing my mother even before I
knew how to feel the loss, I was totally unacquainted
with female character from experience,
and had such an exalted opinion
of their excellencies, that I feared to obtrude
my unworthy self upon their notice.
As vear after vear passed, I felt more and
more confirmed in ray bachelorism. A sedentary
life and close application to business
wrought its effects on a naturally good constitution,
and my physicians recommended
relaxation, and change of scene and air. It
was during my first summer excursion that I
met you, my Clara. Do you remember our
first meeting? I never should have had
courage to address you, had it not been for
that (I must call it fortunate) fall at the
spring. I do not yet understand how I had
the boldness to' raise you and bear you in
my arms to the house. I suppose if other
help had been near, I should have been more
backward in assisting you. Your fortitude
and patience excited my admiration; your
intense suffering my deepest commisseration
and sympathy. I longed to see you the following
day but dared not, and could only
send a cold message of inquiry. I think,
much as I longed for an interview, I should
have left without again seeing you, had you
not sent for me 'to thank me/ as you expressed
it 'for my kind assistance and considerate
attention.' Ah 1 Clara, if those little
offerings of flowers that I have from time to
time sent you could have spoken, how much
'sickly sentimentalism,' would they have revealed.
Nay, love, you must Dot interrupt
me, I am letting you read my heart now?
the spell is on me, a word might break, the
charm aod seal it forever. How I entered
your presence I do not know, and still less
bow I acquitted myself. I only know I left
you to love. Your innocent frankness, your
freedom from affeotation, and a certain quiet
dignity in your manners won my heart, while
they commanded my respect. And then, Clara,
as day after day, I basked in the sunshine
of your presence, each succeeding one found
me more entirely your slave and more unwilling
to part from you. Never for an instant
did I suppose you thought of me as
more than a passing acquaintance. Surrounded
asyou*were by youth, witand wealth,
how could I with my grey hairs, and manners
shy to repulsion, hope to succeed ? Do you recollect
the night I wooed and won you, love ?
What a lovely night it was! But any
scene would have been lovely, any place
paradise with you near me. For weeks before
I was miserable; to remain near you
was suicidal, to fly was death. I determined
at length to take the selfish gratification of
telling you how much you were beloved, and
to say farewell. I told you I loved you;
it came out bard, dry and cold, like the outer
man, while quick upon it followed, 'Clara
Seaborne, will you be my wife V The tremor
in-yoar voice was scarcely preceptible
as you replied 'I will.' Had an avalanche
fallen at my feet, I could Dot have been more
overwhelmed. The half smothered 'God
bless you!' was all I could utter. My braiD
seemed on fire, and my heart bursting with
?i- _ J ii x J
I me unwoncea exciienjenc. iuy miau was u
perfect chaos of tumultuous feeling?I forgot
where I was or whither I was goiDg, until
recalled by your simple and quiet 'Good
night, Mr.~Afarnrera, ' wliluti remindedure~of
our return. A pressure of the hand, another
murmured 'God bless you !' was my only
reply. That night I neverslept?my thoughts
were as a stormy sea, and it was long, long
i before I could subdue or control them. At
i iength the thought like an ice bolt entered
my heart, 'Does she love me?could she have
answered so calmly, so devoid of emotion, if
she had been consumed by the wild fires
racking my breast?' Do not look so reproachfully,
love; it was but for a moment,
when the thought of your truthfulness, your
innate modesty, hushed the wild inquiry to
rest, at least for a time. And with what
gentle dignity you met me on the following
day, when in the wild tumult of my passions
I could have strained you to my breast and
held you there until the throbbing pulses of
my heart would have told how deeply you
were loved! But those calm eyes rested upon
me, a quiet smile on the lip, the cold 'good
morning' passed, and I was a docile child
before you. Again the question forced itself
upon me, 'Does she love me, or is she
deceiving herself ?' but the SDell of voumres
O A * A
ence hushed it again to rest. Your look is
reproaching me again, dearest, but it was not
that I doubted your sincerity?it was the
dread of your not understanding your capability
of loving, and the fear of your mistaking
friendship for a warmer sentiment.
But our troth was plighted, and Oh ! Clara,
the joy of calling you my wife, the rapture
of pressing you to my bosom and feeling that
you were all my own, that I could not give
up. For three months you have made my
hitherto joyless home a sunny paradise; how
sweet it is to live and love, I never hitherto
knew. Oh ! that I could trust to live beloved.
Nay, love, I do not reproach you; I
have told you I discovered this before our
marriage, but I could not counsel a term of
probation then, for I knew that if uiy beautiful
Clara did not give me as devoted a love
as that she had won, yet she had never entertained
a warmer sentiment for another,
and was in fact a stranger to the feeling.?
And now I must answer that look of wonder
which seems to ask, 'to what does all this
tend ?' I do not willingly grieve you, love,
but you arc soon to leave me and with your
mother's friends I hope your sojourn will be
pleasant. You will be thrown in the gay
vortex of society?your wealth will give you
a position; your accomplishments will crowd
a throng of admirers around you, and your
beauty and fascinating manner will, 0! my
Clara, I fear, bring lovers to your feet."
"Now, Edward, you must hear me speak.
You cannot, you do not believe that I would
so far. forget myself and dishonor you, as to
listen to the voice of love from other lips.
Oh ! Edward, you wrong, you insult me, by
such a thought!"
"Forgive me, love, forgive me, and belive
me, I do not doubt your rectitude, and
I pray that my darling may be kept unspotted
from the world. But my spirits are depressed,
and my very soul sinks within me
when I contemplate the posibility of other
lips it'auuiug yuu lue les&uu x uavu iu vaiu
sought to impress upon you. Understand me,
C ara, the sentimentyou entertain towards me
is what you have just defined as love; your
esteem exceeds friendship, your confidence
in me is unbounded?you honor and, I may
say, reverence me as your husband; in short,
every emotion is perfect but love. I fondly
trusted I could teach you?as yet I have not
succeeded. That is right, love, I like to feel
the pressure of that little hand, and there
is almost reproach in those soft eyes. I do
not think I could have ever made these (sonV
fessions as a lover, and a sense of duty to
you my young, untried and belcved wife,
alone impels me now to speak so freely as I
do. Tfcat generous, open, winning disposi- |
t;on wi ll be tempted, and the blight of such
a shadow I would fain preserve you from.
Perhaps, fond words of .endeariae.Qt have
been too rare from my lips. After this revelation,
you cannot doubt the tenderness of
my feelings, the deptb-of my love."
"Edward you are unjust to yourself and
to me. May I speak now ? My nature is
not as warm as yours. I acknowledge I have
never felt the passionate love of which you
speak. I did Dot even suspect the depth of
feeling concealed beneath that calm e xterior;
but you shall not regret your confidence, and
the memory of your love shall be around
me to guard and protect me in every danger
to which I may be exposed. But, Edward,
will you not believe me when I say I love
you ?' said she, timidly.
"I do, dearest, I do. You love to the extent
of which you think you are capable ; but
there is a well spring of feeling concealed in
your heart, with which even you are unacquainted,
and when discovered, your love
will equal, if it does not exceed mine. And
now.give me a kiss of forgiveness for this
long lecture. No, no, do not plead to remain
with me, or I shall think that you fear it is
selfishness to engross your society that has
made me speak so earnestly. Come, smooth
that ruffled brow and get your work while
I read to you, for the office must do without
me to-night. To-morrow I will have nothing
else to cheer me."
. CHAPTER II.
"Well, Charlie, besides the usual set of
simpering misses ana vain coxcomns, whom
have we here?any celebrities 1"
"If by celebrities you mean belles and
beauties, were I to judge by my own standard,
I should say, Yes; but judging for
your fastidious taste, I must be candid and
say, No."
"Horror! if that is the case I'm off tomorrow."
"And just arrived this evening ? You'll
do no such thing; in pity I pray you to the
dozen of bright faces that marked your arrival,
for from the tones of surprised delight
with which it was commented upon, I should
judge it would be a sore disappointment if
they found the welcome visitor had fled."
"Spite of your flattery, Charlie, I'm gone,
if I cannot raise even a flirtation to while
away the tedious hours of these long summer
days/** 41
"Heavens ! man, what do you want ??
Have I not already told you there are a dozen
sighing damsels only awaiting your appearance
to launch their arrows in your heart,
besides as many more who only need to be
told of your arrival to?."
"Nonsense, Charlie! Don't talk to me
of love-sick damsels with scarcely brains
enough in their heads to steady them on
their shoulders, and who, if you but cast a
look on them, think you are dying, as they
express it, of love for them ; a ad then their
pretty manoeuvres to attract attention, their
devotion to mamma, their passion for the
darling children, vowing so innocently they
could never think of leaving dear mamma !
Oh ! no, they never can, nor ever will mart
T? . 1_ ?. 1 - - ff
ry: can: it maxes me savage.
"Well, well, don't fret yourself into a
passion ; you need not marry any of them if
you do not wish to. But come down with
me to the parlor, and if the array of black
eyes and blue eyes, rosy.cheeks and lilly
brows, does not make you alter your decision,
then I give up."
"No indeed ! not I, to be. bored to death
with 'small talk'?a good novel and a cigar
anytime against a bevy of your ugly beauties."
"Harry, you are incorrigible ! If all you
want is a flirtation there are women enough
down there to last you a century ; and some
pretty girls too, and lively as crickets."
"Yes, and all they can say is 'chirp,
chirp, chirp!' No, when I flirt I must have
beauty and wit to give jest to the amusement;
the humid eye must soften or flash at
my bidding, the cheek take a richer hue at
my approach, and the rose-bud lip tremble
as it bids me welcome."
"By Jove, Charlie ! there's a Venus here
only waiting some Promethean touch to warm
her into life, but you are not the one to do
it, old fellow, so keep quiet; surrounded as
she is by a host of admirers, none dare flatter.
Her cool, excuse me, 'did you speak ?'
or 'will you be kind enough to repeat, I
believe I was inattentive?' makes them slink
back like whipped puppies as they are; and
while her words are quiet and lady-like, her
flashing eye and lip of scorn betray the contempt
in which she holds them. But do not
hurry yourself; your novel ahd cigar will be
better company for your epicurean fastidiousness."
"By Jupiter ! the woman I've longed to
meet, but never yet seen. Hah! you promise
sport; but has she wit, sense, feeling??
Better love a woman on canvass, than one
without sense or soul."
"A wit that would facinate sages?not a
sharp, sarcastic, meteor-like flashing that
4.1 J M Jn n V? rl lllftnf AATtlO
scaines auu WUUiJUO, uul a uimmut viuus*
cation which plays around every sentence
which she utters. While you say it is here,
lo! it is there; and again you are enraptured
by a yet more playful illumination. Her
conversations with scientific and learned
men are generally carried on in the form of
modest inquiry, yet each question opens a
world for thought and research. You ask if
6he has feeling? Let me relate an incident
I witnessed a day or two ago; it will serve
to illustrate the character of the woman in
her different pba?es. A party of young
men, some eight or ten in number, entered
one of the private parlors. Ensconced in a
quiet corner eat 1 his Circe, reading. She
seemed painfully embarrassed at our noisy
entrance (it was after dinner,) and half arose
as if to make her escape, then sat down in
the most blushing confusion imaginable.?
Again she arose, us if determined to make
good her retreat, when some four or five ladies,
strangers, entered. They were evidently
novices in fashionable life, and we determined
to have some fun. In a play-house
whisper we made some complimentary remarks,
more poetical than truthfnl, calling
up more blushes than fashionable belles could
muster in a life time. In the midst of our
quizzing, what was our surprise to see our
girlish Circe arise, pass through our midst
with head erect, curling lip, flashing glances
of scorn right and left, and with the tread
and air of a Juno take her scat by the side
of our country friends What she said, I
don't, know ; but our-presence was as virtually
ignored as if we bad" been so many
mites. There she sat with an air of dignified
and haughty reserve to us; to the strangers
gracious, unassuming and kind. At
length, one of her many warders, (for they
travel with a large party,) entered in search
of her. He held up a letter?the woman
was the child again, she sprang eagerly to
??t ;t i..it lln- Ju Vt i..
j ?< t itj uut iic piujriuiijr iiciu it iiuui lie1,
and would have a reward; and the pretty pout
with which she at first refused, and then the
dignified manner in which she resumed her
seat, as she glanced at us, I can give you no
idea of. When he gave her the letter, I
saw her impulse was to press it to her lips,
but she restrained herself, though the dewy
eye, the tremulous lip,7the deepened color,
revealed all she would have hid."
"And ycu say she is beautiful ?"
"No, skeptic, I shall say nothing more,
but?come and see."^
"Her name now, arid I shall release you
from the inquisition."
"Did I not tell you you could not play
the Adonis to this Venus? You must seek
some lowe:: quarry for your sport; she is
signed, sealed and delivered."
"What! engaged? That I consider in
my favor?gives a jest to the pleasure. 1 will
oust the lorerand win the prize."
"I don't think you will," said Charles
Dudley, drily.
"Oh ! I only want her for summer sport;
he may have her again after the season is
over."
"Clara Manvers is married."
"What! married ?' Poh! why did you not
tell me that before?an antiquated belle of
thirty or more, making capital of fading
charms!"
"She is scarcely eighteen, and is a bride
of but a few months. You surely recollect
Clara Seahorns? I thought she had made
rather an impression upon you, the summer
wo warn m; tlie" lakes. She was here last
senRnn. hn k WAR onnfinpfl in Vior r/inim flm mnaf.
of the time from the effect of an accident by
which she sprained her ankle."
"I remember her perfectly ; she gave the
promise of a glorious womanhood. I always
intended to follow up that tender episode by
a genuine flirtation, but different charms at
different times pressed it from my memory.
Who did you say she married ?"
"Edwaid Manvers, a very prominent lawyer,
and a man who stands high it. the community.
He is double her age, but as noble
looking a man as I have ever seen."
"And, so, little Clara is a woman, and is
married! I wonder if she recollects the
night I slipped the ring from her finger, and
swore it should never leave my hand but with
my life ?"
"You should have the life of a cat, if it
was to he f?ivf>n fr>r owrv t.imp rnii mndo
such a vow."
"I wonder where that ring is ? I wish I
could find it; it would be of service to. me
now. Stop ! I have a box where I keep such
gewgaws?I'll hunt it up."
"What for, Leslie ? Do I not tell you she
is married ?"
"Well, Innocence, what of that?"
"Come, Leslie, we want none of your
French morality in America. Pshaw! man,
you have lived so long in that loose society
you forget the Puritan manners of your
fathers."
"And would forget everything that stands
in the light of my own pleasure," replied
Leslie.
"Take care, Southern blood is ready on a
whisper to use powder or steel, and without
a moment's warning."
"I do not fear," replied Leslie, laughing
lightly. "I am here for pleasure, and pleasure
I will have in whatever form it may present
itself. Keep your lecture to console
Edward Manvers. I don't want his wife, I
only want hertribute to my fascinations. No
woman as yet has refused it?she must not
prove an exception."
[to be continued.]
A Terrible Atonement.?Alfred Hood,
aged thirty-five, was recently sent to the insane
asylum, near Cincinnati, having been
crazed by remorse on account of a former
too great intimacy with the wife of another
man. He thought the husband was pursuing
him to take his life. On the 4th, he
fancied that the husband was about to drag
him to hell, and thinking his life would be
an atonement for what he had done, he severed
his head almost entirely from his body
with a razor.
I and J.?There are no two letters in the
manuscript alphabetof the English language
which occasions so much trouble, or causes so
much misconstruction as the two letters I
ana J, as many persons inadvertently write
them. The rule for writing them properly,
and which should be universal^' understood
and adopted, is to extend J below the line.
If thoso who write I for J knew how it sometimes
puzzles printers, they would remember
the above suggestion.
Messrs Dick and Fitzgerald of New
York, are about to issue another "New American
Cyclopaedia j" to wit: The BarTender's
Guide, or Complete Cyclopaedia of
Fancy Drinks, containing plain and reliable
directions for making all the fancy drinks
used in the United States, together with the
most popular British, French, German, and
Spanish recipes.
CmpaitaJlMer.
ADDRESS
KEY. ALBERT A. JAMES,
AT THB
BULLOCK'S CREEK CELEBRATION,
ON
THURSDAY, MAY 151, 1859.
We are met together this day, to lend
you whatever influence our presence may
give to your laudable efforts to ameliorate
the condition of the human family, and on
an occasion which cannot fail to call forth
emotions of the deepest gratitude from the
minds of all who are not iusensible to the
moral influence exerted by your efforts. We
are now arrayed under the banner of "Love,
Purity and Fidelity." Let me congratulate
you in the outset on the prosperous condition
in which we find your Society?a condition
that is well becoming the honor, the
dignity, and the intelligence of a community
like this. And we would ardently hope
that the fruits of the great seminal principle
here sown and cherished, may be realized
and cherished in every part of your
State. Yea, that the whole South, influenced
by your example, may soon cause the
pure and limpid waters of temperance principles,
which shall bountifully flow from your
united exertions, to roll back upon the great
Northern source until our whole Union,
mingling in one magnificent stream of emigration
westward, shall pour forth a perennial
flood of temperance with all its concomitant
blessings upon our boundless and untrodden
waste. Still on, then, with your
noble and laudable undertaking. The happy
rewards of your undertaking and industry
will not only be felt in the present, but
will spring up in another generation, and
your children and children's children shall
reap the harvest.
The evils arising from intemperance are
so manifest, that it would seem that every
man possessed of common reason would be
convinced and persuaded at once to abandon
the use of intoxicating drinks. But such is
the constitution of man by nature, that we
need line upon line and precept upon precept.
We take it for granted that no one
dirppt.lv nr dpsiompdlv rppItq his nwn rnin ?
j D J ?
The desire of happiness is so deeply implanted
in the breast of every human being, and
indeed of every animal, that no one seeks to
-mak? himself wretched. Yet many take
such a course, as according to the laws which
God has established, terminates in disgrace
and wretchedness. To illustrate the means
by which young men are frequently allured
from the path of rectitude and led on step
by step until they are involved in inevitable
ruin, I will refer you to the ancient method
of taking birds in a net. The fowler goes at
night, or some other time when the birds are
not present, to a place which they are accustomed
to frequent, and scatters some kind of
grain or seed as a bait ,and suffers the birds
for several days to come and pick up the
bait unmolested. After he has accustomed
them to come daily without disturbance to
the place which he has selected, he carefully
folds up his net, attaches to it a spring and a
rope, covers it over with leaves, and makes
the place look as nearly as possible like what
it was when the birds had visited it without
harm. These arrangements made, he
conceals himself in a place which he has
previously prepared, and when the unsuspecting
birds alight and commence picking
up the bait, he draws the rope, springs 'the
net and incloses his game. Another stratagem
is also sometimes used. A bird of the
same species as those which the fowler wishes
to take, is used as a decoy. An4 when
the sportsman notices a flock of birds passing
over, he causes his decoy to flutter and appear
to alight where his net is spread. This
attracts the notice of the passing flock and
suspecting no danger, they descend on the
spot prepared for their destruction. The
success of the sportsman greatly depends on
the seorecy with which he conducts his operations.
If he is seen spreading his net or
making his preparations, such is the sagacity
of birds that they cannot be tempted to
come near the fatal spot. These methods of
taking birds in a net, illustrate in a plain
and apt manner, the means by which young
men are frequently allured from the path of
duty, and led, before they are aware of danger,
into fatal snares.
Perhaps, ayoungman may.not deliberately
cast off the fear of God and reject the
Bible, as the first step in the road to ruin.?
Ti~.i i. a. tk.'o A
>Y llQOUl ruuocmug uu iui.i ouujcti niiu vtikuout
intending to renounce the religious
principles inculcated by a pious father or
mother, he may, through the influence of his
associates, be induced to use intoxicating
drinks. At first, they may be drinks of the
weaker class that he will venture to taste,
and that only occasionally, or as some would
say, "only use it in moderation." From the
exhilirating effects he may be induced to
repeat the experiment more frequently, until
he acquires a taste for intoxicating drinks ;
and then his history is soon told. With
some, the progress is rapid. Tasting once or
twice, creates such an appetite that there is
no stopping until they become frantic or
beastly drunk; and some act of violence or
mischief is committed, or such disturbance
is made that their condition cannot be kept
secret. And what would not the unhappy
youth then give, could his disgrace be kept
from the knowledge of his father, mother or
friends? With others,.the progress is slow,
k..* r./>f laoo anro Thaf. an individual haa
not become frantic?that he has not shouted
like a madman?or committed any outrageous
act, encourages him to seek the pleasant
excitement again and again, until he
feels miserable unless he is under the influence
of artificial stimulants. And then his
fate is fixed. He is in the net of the fowler.
He becomes a miserable sot. He finds himself
ruined and degraded in his own estimation?the
shame and grief of parents and
friends, unfit for any responsible and honor
able employment, he is compelled from the
necessity of the case to associate with the
lowest and most worthless in his neighborhood.
How often have I heard affectionate
fathers and mothers say, "I had rather see
my son brought home a corpse than to return
a drunkard." And the choice is certainly
not to be condemned.
The danger of being caught in this net arises
from the fact that in the commencement
nn evil is nnnrehended. The vouth
sees the beginning, but the end is concealed.
He sees*the gayety of his companions, their
antic pranks, their high glee, their jovial
merriment, but he does not anticipate what
they will be in a few years, lounging in the
bar-room, tottering in the streets, wallowing
in the mud, and prematurely carried to the
drunkards grave, followed by broken hearted
parents. In the commencement of his
own eareer, he feels the exhilirating effects
of the social glass; wrapt in delightful reverie
he soars above the earth, and leaving all
care and sorrow behind he imagines himself
able to perform exploits which he dared not
attempt in his sober moments. His companions
applaud the .fluency of his expres
sions and the sportive flashes of his imagination,
and he is encouraged to make higher
and higer efforts. These scenes may be repeated
again and again, and the yodth may not
go so far as to lose command of himself. He
can talk and walk, and control all his move
merits so that be becomes confident that be '
can and will always stop at the right point I
and will never get drunk! But before be
is aware, habit is formed, and then reason <
and conscience and the prospect of eternal <
ruiu cannot stop his onward progress. Pause, i
young man, and reflect on the consequences
before you begin. Remember that many
wise men have been 'deceived, and many 1
strong men have fallen in the way which we '
have described. If you would be safe, "touch :
not, taste not, handle not."
"In the midst of the current of life" says
Dr. Johnson, "is the gulf of intemperance, i
a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks,
whose pointed crags are concealed beneath
the water?whose tops are covered with herbage,
on which ease spreads couohes of repose,
and with shades where pleasure warbles the
song of invitation." This is a stream in which
you are all liable to be engulphed. How
distressing is it to see the youth seizing those
fatal draughts of the intoxicating bowl which
are parching the manly life and scaring the
manly brain How affecting to-see the downy
but wasted cheek tinged with the fever flush
?to see the eye once so radiant with beauty
and intelligence, settle down into a frenzied
glare?to hear those words once of meaning,
of eloquence and of genius, changed to the
delirious ravings of the drunkard ! Such a
scene is indeed affeoting when we consider
that these wrecks might have been ornaments
and pilots to their country. With the
bard of Avon we are ledlo exclaim,
"Oh that men should put an enemy
. In tneir mouths to steal away their senses,
That they should with joy transform themselves
Into brutes."
And with Prior:
"Uuhappy man 1 whom sorrow thus and rage,
To different ills alternately engage;
Who drinks, alas! but to forget, nor sees
That melancholy sloth, severe disease,
Memory confused and interrupted thought,
Death's harbingers lie in the draught;
And in the flowers that wreath the sparkling
bowl,
Fell adderthist; and poisonous serpents roll."
I might go on to an improper length enumerating
the awful consequences resulting
from the use of intoxicating drinks. I will,
however, olose this part of my address in the
language of another.?
"Intemperance cats down youth in its
vigor, mankind in its strength, and age in
its weakness. It breaks the father's heart,
bereaves the doting mother, extinguishes
natural affections, erases conjugal love,
blots out filial attachment, blights parental
hope, and brings down mourning age in sorrow
to the grave. It produces weakness, not
strength; sickness, not health ; death, not
life. It makes wives, widows; children, orphans
; fathers, fiends; and all of them paupers
and beggars. It covers the land with
idleness, poverty, disease and crime. It fills
your jails and supplies your almshouses.?
It engenders controversies, fosters quarrels,
and cherishes riots. It is the life-blood of
the gambler, the aliment of the counterfeiter,
the prop of the highwayman, and the
* . /* .1. . ! J_! Li " 3? Ta.
support 01 tne miamgnt inceuuiary. it
couutenaoccs the liar, respects the thief, and
esteems the blasphemer. It violates obligations,
reverences fraud and honors infamy.
Incites the father to butcher his helpless
offspring; helps the husband to massacre his
wife, and aids the child to grind the parracidal
axe. It burns up man and consumes
woman, detests life, curses God, and despises
heaven. It suborns witnessess, nurses
perjury, defiles the jury-box, and stains the
judicial ermine. It bribes voters, disqualifies
voters, corrupts elections, pollutes our
institutions and endangers our government.
It degrades the citizen, debases the legisla- ,
tor, dishonors the statesman, disarms the .
patriot. It brings shame, not honor j terror, ,
not safety; despair not hope; misery not i
happiness. And with the malevolence of a (
fiend, it calmly surveys its frightful deso- ,
lations, and insatiate with havoc, it poisons j
felicity, slays, reputation and wipes out na- <
tional honor; and then curses the world and ,
laughs at its ruins." There, it does all (
that, and more. It murders the soul?the \
immortal soul! It is the sum of all villainies, ,
the curse of curses?the devil's best friend! But
let us see, in the next place, how you i
are to avoid this dreadful monster. Most of i
the causes which "lead to intoxication may i
be avoided by a little care and a little reso-11
lution. The same courage which is requir-11
ed to maintain integrity in business and in ; s
political life, is also needed here. A ! J
man of delicate sensibility, who feels that i
it is wrong to do what others do without hes- <
itation, sometimes blushes for his scruples, ]
and is ashamed of this tenderness of moral !
feeling. Alas ! public opinion is the tyrant 1
of the world. It is that which drowns the I
voice of conscience and makes cowards of ]
us all. The fear of losing the esteem of
others makes even those whose, intentions
are virtuous, retire abashed and silent. Men
are afraid of not only being worse than others,
hut also of being better Many a good
man conceals his worth, lest he should be
sneered at as a puritan or a saint. Until
this weakness is overcome there can he no
independence of mind. A man . is^not the
master of himself; he is the slave of other
men, and not of their power or superiority,
but the slave of their contempt. To, this
fear of ridicule no class is so sensitive as
young men. They boast much of their courage,
yet in this respect, they are the greatest
cowards in the world. Physically, tffey are
strong and brave, bnt morally fftey are weak
and timid. A sneer cuts through them like
a sword.. Hence they are apt to shrink
from qnT7 rJpptHprJ tjfnnrl urhipVt mow rtrrttmlrp
UUIU MUJ UVVIWVU VJ M V> fl Uivu J/lVTV<tV
derision. They will sacrifice duty, conscience
and honorable feeling to escape the jeer of
their companions. Here is the weakness
and cowardice of young men. They" vaunt
their bravery and are ready tc^Cght a duel
to vindicate their juvenile honor, yet one
look of scorn subdues their manly spirit.?
They shrink before the brazen and the bold,
and are cowed by coarse, vulgar, swaggering
buastere. Young men who by the world
may be esteemed pure, are often ashamed
of their virtuohs habits and principles. In
a party of drinkers doe is ashamed to own
that he is a temperance ^Tjifan'; ajuong debauches,
he is ashamed of" his innocence.
True moral courage then is essentially necessary
on the part of every one who would
sscape the bewitching snares of intemjpierance.
Again : You should avoid those places
where it is habitually used. You have abhieved
noble triumph in your District
where men can be elected to offices of honor
and trust without buying up his constituents
by the half pint; and I feel persuaded
that if every honest minded candidate could
Bee the awful scenes enacted under tbfc influence
of spirituous liquors which they distribute
amoog the people, they would retire
J: i. r All -ill
in uiagusi, iruw tue cuuvass. .an places
where intemperance abounds should be carefully
avoided. Then every man should connect
himself with some temperance association.
I do not refer to those only who are
confirmed in the practice of drinking ; for
this class there is very little hope. I look
upon a confirmed drunkard very much in
the same light as a deranged man. They
can not be reclaimed by any process of reason.
The same associations will always be
accompanied with the same temptations, with
no moral courage to resist them. It is then
only by the spirit of God that any change
can be effected upon such persons. But I
refer to those who consider themselves as
moderate drinkers or even those who do not
use it. And I remark tb?it I have met with
persons who were members of the Church
objecting to the temperance reformation.?
We would not have been surprised at such
a thing occurring in the dark ages of the
Church j bat for any one in the ,19th century
to object to an enterprise pViioh has for
its object the moral improvenent of the hu- j
man race is beyond our comprehension.-? V
The principle argument relied on is that they "S
can find uo place in scripture which enjoins
it upon them to unite with a temperance society.
When I hear men speaking this way,
it always reminds mo of a conversation,
which I once heard of taking place between
a minister and his deacon on this subject.?
The deacon was in the habit of taking bis
dram as he called it, "in moderation." This
minister found him one dav standing near a
well which he was digging, and as usual,
the subject of temperance was mentioned by
the minister. Ah ! said the deacon, 'all
your arguments appear very plausible, and I
promise you when I go home I will commence
and read my Bible from Genesis to
Revelation, and if I find in it any thing that
says I should join a temperance society, I
pledge you my word I will do it.' Just at
this moment his foot slipped and he fell to
the bottom of his well. After recovering himself
he called on his minister to let down the
rope and draw him oot. The reply he received
was, <1 promise you that when I go
home, I will commence and read my Bible
from Genesis to Revelations, and if I find in
it anything that says I shall draw a deacon
out of a well, then I will of course do it.'?
Seeing no other chance \>f escape and not
wishing to perish, he agreed that if the minister
would take him up he would join the
society without further investigation.
I trust there are none here who doubt in
the least the propriety of the temperance
movement. My christian friends, look at
its fruits : its aim is to make men better and
not worse, and in thousands of instances
it has accomplished this. Now, the Bible
enjoins it upon you to lend a helping hand
to every good work. Why, Sirs, blot out
the temperance societies from the land
and it will be impossible among a certain
class to preserve the Sabbath, except as
a day of thoughtless festivity and noisy mirth,
and pre-eminently a day of sin. Then God
will hide his face from an erring and selfdestroyed
people; and dense and angry
clouds, the precursors of his vengeance, will
gather from every quarter of the horizon.?
One ory of violence and blasphemy, will ascend
like the cry of Sodom, from all the
dwellers between the two oceans, and between
the Gulf of Mexico and the Northern
3ea. No extraordinary instruments of divine
wrath need be famished; the remorseless
cravings of unsatisfied desire and the fraud
and malice pervading all ranks and classes
rf men will supply more than a sufficient
number of public executioners. Who that
has not a heart of adamant, can, without
ihuddering, regard such a day as probable ?
NTot only is such a state of things desired
ind aimed at by multitudes, but it is precisely
such an issue as the unresisted depravity
of man will speedily terminate in.?
[t is altogether a practical matter; and will
be the sad history of this country, unless
the good and the public spirited and the
pious of the present and succeeding genera