The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1888-09-05
"I started From Your cider y

In certain village of Chenango County,
n. V, there lives an aged coupe The lines
Of trouble and sorrow mark the face of each.
Often on a summer evening, just at dusk,
you will find them sitting, quiet and sad, by
the grave of an only son. A handsome stone
marks the spot. The story of their grief is
the same old sad one of alcoholic drinks.
Deacon - was an energetic farmer,
leader in the church, and an influential man
in the neighborhood; his wife loving,
economic, Christian woman; Their only child
a boy.
The deacon did not trouble himself about
the temperance movement The "tirade,"
as he called it, on cider was particularly of
fensive to him His father used it, and so did
he. 1t was rolled in his cellar in generous
quantities. The boy, bright keen, prom
Using child, had free access to it, and grew to
like it. The parents did not become alarmed
unlil the boy, now entering into manhood,
wanting something stronger. He was often
found at the village bar and, with fast
horse, often at the county seat.
One night the village people were startled
by the furious galloping Of runaway horse
through the main street. Near the
remains of sulky, and the insensi-
be form of the deacon's son. He was
horribly mangled, having been dragged
quite distance by the heels, which had
been caught and held by some part of the
sulky when he fell from the seat. They
carried the still unconscious lad home to his
sorrow-stricken parents The doctor was
sent for, but pronounced the case hopeless
After a few hours of nursing, and the ap-
plication of restoratives, he came to his
senses. He knew he was dying. His father
bent over him in agony, wringing his hands,
while the poor mother, half da2ed with grief,
wept in anguish. The boy, after several
attempts TO speak, said: Father, it is too late
to weep now. I've been bad boy, but
could not live without drink. l learned to
10 or fha fab b1a and IN fba fial1 If | o n
to hell, l started from your cider.n That
night he died. The poor old couple carry
this terrible reproof to the grave. The
heavy burden has crushed them into old age
before their time. Good Times.
RUNS Myriad Victims.
Not less than 50, 600 victims go annually tc
to the drunkards grave from the homes OF
this land. Pestilence and war combined dc
not, in this country, equal its destructive
energy. The waste of human life wrought
every five years by our 100000 saloons, is
equal to the destruction of life by both
armies, numbering millions of armed men,
during the entire war of the rebellion. In
their hands strong drink is a weapon so fatal
that the 10000 drunkard-makers are able to
accomplish more in the same period than
four times their number could with shot and
shell, fire and sword, and all the appliances
of modern warfare. The cruelty Of war is
not measured by the number OF those who
fall in battle, but by the unutterable wo
and bitter anguish of broken hearts
and desolated homes Most en-
phatically is it true, that the
mere destruction of $4,000 lives last
year affords no measure of the relentless
cruelty of the LIQUOR power in its war against
society. To realize this you must go to the
dishonored homes, question the broken
hearts, read the voiceless misery in wan and
haggard faces, hear helpless children cry for
food, see them stricken down by drunken and
infuriated fathers, and sometimes even by
besotted mothers, witness the debauchery
and ruin OF youth, and the utter degrada-
tion ignorance, poverty and misery which
every where and always accompany the vic
Tins of the saloon.
Alas! how true and terrible is this indict-
ment of the saloon. Oh, that from every
hill top and valley, from mountain and
prairie, from city and hamlet, from lake TO
gulf and from sea TO sea, there might this
day arise the united voice of our sixty mill
ions of people in most solemn Declaration of
Independence of this cruel King, whose in
iuries and usurpation threaten the destruc
tion of our free Government Clinton g.
Fisk in Independent.