The Jackson standard. [volume] (Jackson C.H., Ohio) 1847-1888, 1882-05-25
happy household. Oh, that the picture
should ever remain unsulliedi

the business houses furnished light for
the belated pedestrians whose footsteps
echoed hollowly along the streets.
Let us walk along the line of business
houses with their tempting array of
goods-all the manufactures and products
of the vegetable, mineral and animal
kingdoms are represented, by goods
brought from scores of markets. But,
let us pass by all these, and pause in
front of a rather neat-looking two-story
building with a suspicious-looking screen,
or partition, near the front door. Back
of this screen or partition, we hear a |
maudlin jabbering, a confused jumbling |
of laughter, oaths, and jingling glasses.
This is business house; it is market |
house; it is a jobbing house, where SOULS
are bought, on commission, for the Devil.
1t is possibly a pardonable curiosity
which prompts us to go into this market
house, and see how trade is thriving. Let
US not draw any fancy picture, but record
the scene just as we see it tonight, and
just as scores of people see it every night
in the week. A line of small tables oc-
cupy the centre of the long room, and
around these are ranged a motley crowd
of men and boys, laughing, joking, ours
ing and swearing. At the first table we
notice an old man, whose hair has long
been silvered by the frosts of Time. OPP
posite him, and engaged in game of
cards with him, is boy who has not
nearly reached the estate of manhood, yet
who seems to be well acquainted with
the lay of the land along Satan's highway.
Turning upon the old man opposite, he
exclaims, while scornful look rests upon
his face:
Here, you d old White-headed
scoundrel, you're cheatin' me!'
you're liarv replied his companion.
And thus the pleasant conversation
goes on between the two.
At another table, sits man learned in
Allopathy, and opposite him sits a man
learned in law. He of the legal frater-
nifty is engaged in deep study. Is he
pondering upon some knotty problem OF
law or testimony? Is he worrying over
press of legal business at the coming
term of Court? No! He is attempting
to devise the best method of cheating his
opponent, and getting drink at the bar
for nothing. And thus we might go on
through the establishment, with a SINH
lar experience at each table. But let us
leave the disgusting scene, not even paus-
ing to notice the bloated and blistered
form of Won Schwill, the proprietor, as
we pass out. These people we have seen
here are the ripening grain of the Devils
harvest.
Three years have passed away since we
looked in upon the scenes described in
the preceding chapter. Again we pass by
the home of George Waring, but this time
no bright light greets us from the win
dows-only a few Pickering rays from
the dying embers upon the dingy hearth.
Suddenly, the door of the old building
in which we now find our old friends is
pulled open and a sad, tear-stained face
peers cautiously out into the night.
Seemingly reassured by the outlook, the
scantily clad figure of Mary Waring steps
out into the night, and moves wearily
along the dark street, pausing at last in
front of fine, stOne-frOnt building, in
the front door of which stands our old
friend Won Schwill-a little redder and
more bloated than when we last saw him,
but otherwise unchanged. Times have
been prosperous at the Devils Market
House since we last looked in upon it;
men have sunk still lower in the scale of
depravity; boys have grown older in sin
as well as years; skilled mechanics have
paid their earnings to Won Schwill for
changing them into beasts; and, alto
gether, Won Schwill feels that he can
congratulate himself, curse God, and be
happy.
Mary Waring approaches, evidently in
much trepidation, and asks:
"Is George here?"
mo! You moost pass right along, und
don pc shtoppin in front Of my blace of
peesness" brutally replied the Devils
agent, as he stood toying with a small
gold locket attached to his ponderous
watch-chain. A deathly pallor over
spread the face of Mary Waring at sight
of that little trinket. Oh, how long she
had sought it, and wondered what had
become of it! Now it was all plain as
day. This beautiful keepsake, which
had been given to her, years previous, by
her loving husband, and which had con-
tanned the portrait of her darling boy, had
been stolen out by George in one of his
drunken fits, and traded to this monster
for liquor. Now, in place of the golden
curls and dimpled loveliness of her little
one, she might see, could she look once
again into that little trinket, the rough,
| beer-fed physiognomy of Won Schwill's
child.
| But Mary Waring waits for no further
conversation with the monster. The
sight she has witnessed acts as one more
dart to pierce her SOUL She fees from it
as though the very sight contained a
thousand deaths.
Worn out with grief and excitement
she at last reaches her cheerless dwelling.
The door stands slightly ajar; she enters;
there, stretched upon the floor, lay the OBJ
ject of her search
In ftful slumber, starting at each sound
That broke the awful quietude around
The clock struck ten-its loudly-clanging bell
Broke on the stiffness like some warning knell.
Tears fell from eyes that oft were called to weep,
While keeping vigil DER a drunkard's sleep.
And while she gazed, and pondered on his fall,
She could but own she loved him after all.
Suddenly the sleeper assumed a sitting
posture upon the floor, and gazed wildly
about him, as if expecting something yet
afraid to look for it. "Where's Willie?"
he asked of his wife.
Ah, what wonder that tears fell like
rain from the eyes of the patient little
wonan9 Where was the hripht GOLDEN