Western Reserve chronicle. [volume] (Warren, Ohio) 1855-1921, 1866-03-07
Written for the Chronicle
Demon HaunfS.


Being detained by cold weather, and
having finished the DAILY News" the
solitude of my room suggested that ]
have a short talk with the patrons of the
Chronicle, as l see that is ''the paper" OF
this thriving little town. In writing, as
well as in conversation, / know certain
rules should be observed; and when a
pupil at school l studied them, and for
many years tried to pratice, but contact
with the busy world, will shape us some,
SO if l depart from prescribed rules, judge
me not harshly.
I need not speak of the "Sunny South"
for who, at the present date, is not con-
versant with her fearful history. Her
beautious landscapes, or quiet wales, are
rendered dear or terrible to US, only as
they have been the stage for events,
which have brought joy or sorrow to our
hearts.
Asthe ponderous locomotivero north
ward, and we leave the Inflated land be-
hind, when we imerge from her deep de-
files, and open our eyes again on North
ern Soil" we more than ever appreciate
U superior Institutions and improve
ments, the results of liberty.
And yet, this favoured land. with all its
inventive power, its educational facilities,
its strength of intellect, and its means
for accomplishing almost any object how
ever gigantic, is daily distinguishing
under the weight of a monster. My pen
recoils when 1 essay to record his hated
name.
As l trace the noble rivers in the West,
1 mark his footprints; passing down the
chain of lakes in the North, | behold his
baneful work. Can the traveller pause
where his influence is not felt? Do we
stop in the city-lo the gilded haunts,
santioned By LaU, and dedicated to his use.
Coming into the pleasant little county
towns that dot over this fair country, we
hope to see industry, enterprise and pub
lie virtue predominant but alas, is IL SO +?
Is there no spot here sacred to Bacchus?-
Is this a place where the wall of the
drunkard's wife and suffering child is not
heard? Does no cry 60 up to a God of
justice for r~etribution on the head OF re-
tailers of stimulating drink !-The heart
sickens, and we turn to the country,
where honest toll, domestic affection and
regular habits, we might expect, would
prove security from his pestilental breath.
Shall it be written, at almost every juno
ton of streets, stands the meager factory
for making drunkards. A pail, blacker
than the curtains of death, hangs oVer
the spot. And few 60 there, whose earth
~ hopes and prospects, are not crushed
by these fearful engines.
As we pass through the streets and be-
hold from the once honoured sire, all ages,
down to the fair boy This mothers pride)
their steps bending towards these awful
-I.l.1a11 ~a-.soo Hs6a "a roaoTuo fhnrnN
Where are the men of nerve and princi-
put down this "Hydra Monster" Alas,
some slept. ere the trumpet of war SCUM
ded others, lovers of liberty, and pro-
tectors of human rights, having no re-
sponEibIlity which might bring salvation
their country, or good to a fallen being.
are gone. Their bodies are buried in
southern trenches, or if brought home
fill honored graves.
As I passed one of these 'dens," one
bright Monday morning, 1 saw advancing
an intelligent looking little boy, stagger-
ing under the weight of a jug, which no
doubt had been borrowed on Saturday
night, to convey that which should al
lay the cravings of the stomach of the
father over the Sabbath, thus leaving not
one hopeful day in seven, for the sad ones
at home. As l passed the boy, a deep
blush of shame passed over his face
child that he was, he felt, oh how keenlyl
the humiliation of his position. As /
passed Oh, the thought naturally int. u
ded itself upon my mind, whether this
boy, as he advanced in life, would fall in
to the habits of his besottej father, or
whether the burning shame imprinted on
his young heart, may not prove q shield,
which not even the most artful device of
the retailer of stimulants can ever pen
citrate. When called abroad, either by
business or pleasure, we look in vain for
the place where the foot of the destroyer
may moi enter. To the howell of the poor
~day-labourer; to the vine covered cottage
where love once reigned supreme to the
handsome farm house where only clear
heads and warm hearts should be found
to the home of the ssgacious lawyer, the
merchant or mechanic, yea, and ever to
the mansions of the honoured statesmen,
the Nations prop, the demon of Intem
peTance finds access. "God a the
Country" TRAVELLER.