Sword and shield. (Clinton, Miss.) 1885-1888, 1885-02-14
A Disgraceful Mode Of Making a
Living.

AAtAABe
Cor. Kinds Co. Comet.
I would that every saloon keeper
that takes the Comet, or for that
matter, every liquor seller in the
world would read this article. Now,
l have no quarrel with the saloon
keeper, as a man, but as seller of
whisky, or, what is the same thing,
as retailer of death, a seller of pow
erty, a traficer, in broken hearts of
women and in $read robbed from
little children, ! can't say too much.
AS the Quaker, into whose house a
burglar had broken, said: " Look
out, friend, / am going to shoot
where thee stands" so / say to the
whisky seller: Look out, friend, |
am going to fire where thee stands,
and if thee keeps on standing at the
whisky dealers counter, | hope l
may hit thee" So much for
preface.
Look at the other trades and COM
pare them with this one. Take the
mechanic, day in and day out, with
great brawny arms and tense,
strained muscles he smites with his
hammer till the sparks fly from the
molten iron in starry showers. and
the noise of his shop seems the deep,
earnest, helpful, hopeful voice of
Labor and Progress themselves. As
we sit by our glowing fire Of a win
ter's night. and hear the CHASTITY
tattoo the rain beats on the window
and the heart-broktn sobbing of the
winds that seem little lost child,
that sobs forevermore, we look at its
CHEEKY glow and murmur, God bless
the artisan and mechanic who built
our houses. But who has "God
bless you!!" for the saloon keeper !?
The little girl drunken father beats
and turns out into the cold, black
night? A mother that with thin,
worn hands turns her Bible and
prays for her boy, who lies in prison
for crime that he committed while
out on spree? Not much. Look at
the doctor the doctor whose voice
in the sick-room is tender as moth
er's soothing hurt child, and yet
who, when the rain smites him
sheer in the face, and the churlish
wind bufets and beats him, sallies
out in the night to the side of the
humblest and meanest. Who does
not pray for the doctor?
But, my whisky dealer, where is
the heart that you may make glad,
where are eyes that brighten at
your coming, where are the hands
tnat clasp yours in warm, close
friendship. ! suppose, maybe, it is
the hand of the family whose son
you have lured down to infamy. l
suppose it is the eyes of yon hollow
checked woman, whose house your
wares have made hell. Her eyes
brighten, trow, when she hears the
tread of your feet, her heart leaps
up in JOY when this dear benefactor
of her husband, this kind gentleman
who always gives him whisky for
money. comes in sight.
So take all the trades-merchant,
blacksmith, painter, lawyer, timer,
baker, all, all, and somebody has a
good word for them all. But he
who brings woe to households, he
who fills jails, poorhouses, hospitals
and madhouse cells, what can he
expect? Does he look for honor on
earth =? Does his boy at college,
when other boys speak proudly of
their fathers, look with clear bright
eyes and say right manly, ''My ia
ther keeps saloon.'' Does not the
poor boy rather find it convenient to
say nothing about his fathers busi-
ness? Does his family. when at
fashionable watering places delig ght
in proclaiming to the world how the
money they spend was made? D!
saloon keepers, be men, merclful
men, and spare yourself, your child
rem and your countrymen. Remem-
Der every flower that bushes in
your wife's bonnet was stolen, as it
were, from the cheeks of some
drunkard's wife; remember every
diamond stud that flashes on your
own bosom cost a thousand tears.
Remember that to buy your little
boy and girl the toys that make
their sweet, pure mouths bubble
over with that childish prattle and
laughter, that is the blessedest
sound on earth, many a poor little
fellow, many poor little girl with
eyes as blue and hair as golden as
your own darling's, has gone to bed
sobblng for bread, or worse still has
fallen to sleep in the cold bleak
street under the gaslight; till IN
pity the snow threw covering
round them, pure as their own
hearts, and angels in mercy took
them up to the MINDLESS, snOwless,
nightless realms of God.
THOMAS DABNEY MARSHALL.
| U1,,.,. 80 ma o& @T,a VVorIdsu EvmAcifion