NIGHT THE FIFTH. SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF TAVERN-KEEPING
NIGHT THE SIXTH. MORE CONSEQUENCES
NIGHT THE SEVENTH. SOWING THE WIND
NIGHT THE EIGHTH. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND
NIGHT THE NINTH. A FEARFUL CONSUMMATION
NIGHT THE TENTH. THE CLOSING SCENE AT THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."
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A cordial grasp of the hand and a few words of hearty welcome greeted me as I alighted from the stage at the "Sickle and Sheaf," on my next visit to Cedarville. At the first glance, I saw no change in the countenance, manner, or general bearing of Simon Slade, the landlord. With him, the year seemed to have passed like a pleasant summer day. His face was round, and full, and rosy, and his eyes sparkled with that good humor which flows from intense self-satisfaction. Everything about him seemed to say—"All 'right with myself and the world."
I had scarcely expected this. From what I saw during my last brief sojourn at the "Sickle and Sheaf," the inference was natural, that elements had been called into activity, which must produce changes adverse to those pleasant states of mind that threw an almost perpetual sunshine over the landlord's countenance. How many hundreds of times had I thought of Tom Morgan and Willy Hammond—of Frank, and the temptations to which a bar-room exposed him. The heart of Slade must, indeed, be as hard as one of his old mill-stones, if he could remain an unmoved witness of the corruption and degradation of these.
.....
"Who is that old gentleman who came in just now?" I inquired of the person who thus commented on the incident which had just occurred.