  ——— BY WILLIAM C. BROWN. ——— “Oh, thou invisible spirit of Rum! if thou hadst no name by which to know thee, we would call thee—devil.”—Shakspeare. Let thy devotee extol thee, And thy wondrous virtues sum; But the worst of names I’ll call thee, O, thou hydra monster, Rum! Pimple-maker, visage-bloater, Health-corrupter, idler’s mate; Mischief breeder, vice promoter, Credit spoiler, devil’s bait. Almshouse builder, pauper maker, Trust betrayer, sorrow’s source; Pocket emptier, Sabbath breaker, Conscience stiller, guilt’s resource. Nerve enfeebler, system shatterer, Thirst increaser, vagrant thief; Cough producer, treacherous flatterer, Mud bedauber, mock relief. Business hinderer, spleen instiller, Wo begetter, friendship’s bane; Anger heater, Bridewell filler, Debt involver, toper’s chain. Memory drowner, honor wrecker, Judgment warper, blue-faced quack; Feud beginner, rags bedecker, Strife enkindler, fortune’s wreck. Summer’s cooler, winter’s warmer, Blood polluter, specious snare; Mob collector, man transformer, Bond undoer, gambler’s fare. Speech bewrangler, headlong bringer, Vitals burner, deadly fire; Riot mover, firebrand flinger, Discord kindler, misery’s sire. Sinews robber, worth depriver, Strength subduer, hideous foe; Reason thwarter, fraud contriver, Money waster, nations’ wo. Vile seducer, joy dispeller, Peace disturber, blackguard guest; Sloth implanter, liver sweller, Brain distracter, hateful pest. Wit destroyer, joy impairer, Scandal dealer, foul-mouthed scourge; Senses blunter, youth ensnarer, Crime inventor, ruin’s verge. Virtue blaster, base deceiver, Spite displayer, sot’s delight; Noise exciter, stomach heaver, Falsehood spreader, scorpion’s bite. Quarrel plotter, rage discharger, Giant conqueror, wasteful sway; Chin carbuncler, tongue enlarger, Malice venter, death’s broadway. Household scatterer, high-hope dasher, Death’s forerunner, hell’s dire brink; Ravenous murderer, windpipe slasher, Drunkard’s lodging, meat and drink! Well—what are the arguments of the opponents of the “Maine Law!” We have heard them—having been present at the grand gathering of Distillers, Rum-sellers, and Drinkers at Tripler Hall, on Friday evening, the 27th of February. About as precious a set of “jolly fellows” as we ever saw in all our life, were there assembled to listen to the advantages of dying by slow poison. We give a picture, which sets forth the point and moral of the matter. Arguments of the opponents of the Maine law—illustrated. This was the pith and marrow of the whole affair. “Rum was”—Well, what? Why—“Rum!” Every body was enlightened and saw clearly. There was not a shadow of doubt about the matter. Its character was not in the least altered—it was the same devil, only painted a little red—not at all improved either, by the artists—in fact, Mr. Camp made him rather more hideous by attempting to make him a facetious, jolly sort of a devil, without any evil quality, but much given to poetry, philosophy, and particularly, mechanics. His inventive powers, however, were not brought out quite as clearly as Mr. Camp’s own, who, with a fine delivery and sonorous ring of voice, did all that it was possible for man to do in a bad cause—still he did not do—at least, not the majority there assembled. The whole affair was a horrible jest—it was—Yes! it was a Rum-joke—and nothing else. No one was hardy enough to attempt to prove, that Rum ever made a great man greater—or improved the mental calibre of a small one. Ever warmed the heart of a miser to do an unrepented act of generosity—or enlarged the soul to permanent and consistent acts of lofty heroism for the welfare of mankind. Ever filled the cottage with smiling faces and happy hearts, permanently—shed plenty upon the tables of the poor, or made a wife happier or children more respected—ever, in short, carried any thing but a concealed curse in its bright bubbles and brilliant hues. We came away with no change of opinion as to the deleterious effects of Rum as a beverage. Taken either at the social board, with jolly good fellows, or among wits, poets and philosophers—it carries the same horror on its front, the same death in its smile. Even the sounding-boards, from which the notes of Jenny Lind floated out, almost divinely, gave no music to the voice of Rum’s advocate—the best joke had a croak—and the laughter a horribly consumptive sound. |
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