University of Virginia Library

THE SPOILED CHILD.

What is more holy than a mother's love? It beams
on its object purely and calmly, unmixed with passion
and careless of reward.

And yet this affection may be perverted. It may
render the object once worthy of it miserable and sinful,
and bring down the heart which once glowed with
it, sorrowing to the grave. Let us sketch the melancholy
transaction, as it has occurred in actual life.

One Sabbath afternoon, in the summer of 1825, a
mother sat, with her little boy, on the mound of a recent
grave. There was in the air that softened feeling
which frequently succeeds a sultry noon, and
seems to accord well with the melancholy of the sorrowing
soul; while the ceaseless chirping of thousands
of insects imparted a feeling of freshness and
retirement which aided the midn in its work of contemplation.
But the young mother seemed not to notice
what transpired around her. She held her child
on her knee; while tears rolled without ceasing
from her eyes. Hers was the wild grief which
bursts at once into the paroxysms that threaten to
overwhelm the feeble frame beneath their violence.
She sat upon the grave of her husband; and, as she
clasped their only child in her arms, and pressed her
lips to his brow, she called wildly upon the name of
him she had loved, and prayed that at least her life
might be spared for the sake of her son.

This scene deeply affected the little boy. Though
too young to feel his loss, he had associated a frightful
meaning with the idea of death. He remembered the
last words and looks of his father, when he had bidden
him farewell, as though sinking to sleep; and,
with his hand on his head, spoke low and sadly, of the
little son being one day a comfort to his mother. And
now, as his mother wept wildly, he placed his arms
around her, with the warm feelings of childhood, and
repeating his father's blessing, promised to be to her
a comforter and supporter. And was the mother's
prayer that she might be spared to watch over her

son heard? And did the son redeem the promise that
he would be the comfort of his widowed mother?

Mrs. Ross was a kind but not a judicious parent.
Sometimes she censured her little boy for acts, which
were but the overflowing of exuberant feelings; and
often she laughed at deeds or expressions which were
deserving of punishment. Under management so tortuous
his temper became irregular, and his will ungovernable.
The impression produced by his father's
death, which, if rightly improved, might have proved
a lasting benefit, was soon effaced; and five years
after that event, when but ten years of age, he was
known among Mrs. Ross's acquaintances as the spoiled
child. At that time, the decanter and wine glass
were the accompaniments of every sideboard, and
every parlour. While Mr. Ross lived, his son had
not been permitted to taste their contents; but afterwards,
the mother smiled to see her son swallow portions
of wine and cordial which she left in the glass
for him, or climb upon a chair to reach the bottle
down to her. The result was the same that happened
to thousands of that period. At an early age he had
imbibed a strong appetite for spirituous liquor, and
sought to gratify it in every possible way. He helped
himself to his mother's wines, spent money at taverns
and liquor stores, and associated with those who, more
vicious than himself, were more expert in obtaining
the means of satisfying their appetite for drink.

To this evil course, Mrs. Ross, in a great measure,
closed her eyes. Some acts, too glaring to escape her
notice, she excused on the score of youth; others she

threatened to punish, but afterwards passed in silence;
while most of his bad habits she concluded would cure
themselves. It will not excite wonder that with such
training, Samuel Ross was at the early age of sixteen,
in a fair way to become a confirmed inebriate.

Mrs. Ross was awakened from her apathy by an
event, at once sudden and unexpected. Samuel was
brought home, helplessly intoxicated. It is natural
for woman to abhor a drunkard; and yet this mother,
kind and sensitive as she was, had never supposed
that her boy was in danger of becoming one, much
less, that she had been instrumental in producing
such a result. The shock received from this spectacle
almost overcame her; and during the day, and until
late at night, she sat in the room, sobbing and wringing
her hands over the helpless form of her son. Yet
this grief was the effect of mortified pride, rather than
the genuine sorrow which can be alleviated only by the
removal of its cause. In the morning a change was visible
on the countenance of each, as they sat at table.
For the first time the mother did not smile at those actions
of her son, which would have given pain to any
other beholder; while the young man, conscious that
she had been a witness of his degradation, maintained
a sullen silence. Mrs. Ross tried to converse with
him; but he answered only with short interjections
and in an irritated tone. He had done so before, but
now his words seemed cold and cruel. At last she
burst into tears—that infallible resort of the weak.
But with a contemptuous expression of countenance,
he arose from the table, and hastily putting on his hat,

passed out of the room. Her sorrowful tones, as she
called him by name, were unheeded, and she was left
alone.

During that day she watched for him in vain, and
the evening was wearing towards ten o'clock before he
returned. Being half intoxicated he was not in a
condition to sustain conversation or bear reproof, but
at his entrance the mother ran to meet him, and endeavoured
to draw him towards the table, where his
supper was still waiting. But he threw himself
doggedly upon a chair, and, extending his feet to their
full stretch, remained deaf to her questions and entreaties.
At last seating herself beside him, she
exclaimed—

“Samuel, have you forgotten I am your mother?”

“Let me alone,” he replied, in a voice choked with
passion, “I did not come home to be lectured.”

Mrs. Ross started to her feet; but staring her
in the face with a look of malignity, he rose from the
chair, and passed to his room. With a heavy heart,
she seated herself by the table, and burying her face
in her hands, endeavoured to devise some plan to
regain the affections of her boy, and save him from
the career of ruin into which he appeared to have entered.
But the longer she thought over the painful
subject, the more did her thoughts become confused;
and at length she fell into a troubled sleep, which was
interrupted at intervals by frightful dreams. Morning
dawned, and found her still in this position; and
Samuel, who had partially recovered from the effects
of his debauch was met as he entered the room, by

the spectacle of his mother reclining across the table,
while her face, half concealed by hair, exhibited every
appearance of the deepest grief. For a moment he
was startled. He believed her to be dead; and could
remember enough of the previous night's proceedings
to feel that he had deeply injured her. For a while
he felt some compunctions of shame and sorrow; but
on observing that she was merely asleep, he regained
his usual indifference. Destitute of every generous
feeling, he passed from the room, put on his hat, and
left the house. He returned at noon; but there was
no smile of recognition between the mother and her
son, no kind inquiries after her health, none of the mutual
exchange of affection which makes home delightful.
Mrs. Ross, unsuited for the work of guiding or
governing, knew not in what terms to address her son;
and he, rendered proud and brutal by sensual indulgence,
disdained to extend to his mother, a word of
consolation.

Such is a picture of the mode of life, which, during
many weeks, this widowed mother was doomed to
pass. To a woman of high spirit, but who has not
been taught to regulate and modify her will and affections,
this constant struggle, with an evil for which
she has no remedy, soon becomes the cause of disease
and wasting melancholy. Such was the case with
Mrs. Ross. Like many others of her sex, she could
sustain an amount of grief, which during the first
wild outbreak had appeared overwhelming; but she
was not formed to endure the corroding cares, which
silently but surely, prey upon the mind week after

week, and month after month. Her features naturally
bright with the glow of health, became wan and
sickly; her cheerfulness departed; and she grew
averse to that round of pleasures and social intercourse
which had formerly been her chief enjoyment.

At the early age of nineteen, Samuel Ross was an
immoderate drinker. He frequented low taverns,
associated with the vilest company, and laughed at
the restraints of morality or decency. At that time
the great temperance movement had made rapid progress
throughout the country, and many of the evils,
which had existed when Samuel was a boy, had
passed away. Numerous efforts were made to induce
him to join the Temperance men; but none of them
were attended with success. During the distress
which then existed in every part of the country, he
became involved in difficulties, in consequence of
his connection with a gang of young men who were
strongly suspected of being engaged in a plan for
perpetrating extensive robberies. Flying from his
native city, he repaired to St. Louis, and assumed the
name of Hamilton. Let us witness one of the
closing scenes of his career of crime.

In one of the many taverns of St. Louis, half a dozen
men had collected together one afternoon, to play dice.
Hamilton was one of them. As each lost or won, he
drank deeply, accompanying the action with a terrible
oath. During the first five or six throws fortune appeared
adverse to Hamilton. His antagonist, a thin, tall
man, about forty-three years of age, swept, with a
triumphant leer, pile after pile of money from the

board, and with an oath, which breathed defiance,
called for drink. But while he grew excited, Hamilton
remained cool; and after partially emptying a glass as
often as he lost a throw he suddenly refrained altogether
from drinking. At this moment the tide of success
turned. One after another Hamilton gained and bore
away the piles of money staked before him, until he
had doubled his original capital. He was still calm
and cool as before; while his antagonist bit his lips
with rage.

During this scene, a stout man, enveloped in a
blanket coat, came into the tavern, and, after drinking,
approached the table round which the players were
seated. He stood without speaking for about half an
hour, apparently absorbed with the spectacle. The
men played on without noticing him; but once as
Hamilton raised his eye, as if involuntarily, he perceived
that the stranger, instead of looking at the
game, had his eyes fixed intently upon him. There
was something in his look which made Hamilton,
reckless as he was, quail, and deprived him in a moment,
of his self-possession.

The game proceeded as before, and Hamilton continued
to win. Suddenly, his antagonist threw his
dice upon the table, and exclaimed:—“you are cheating,
sir. No man could have thrown that dice as
you did then, and win.”

“But I did win,” replied Hamilton, coolly.

“It was foul play—I stick to that,” said the other,
with an oath, as he brought his clenched hand down
upon the table with a violence which made the room

shake. The other men ceased playing; and Hamilton's
antagonist demanded that the throw should be
taken over. To this the other would not consent; and
at last it was proposed to ask the opinion of the stranger.
Hamilton was most unwilling to do so, for he
had imbibed a strong antipathy against him. To
save appearances he submitted, and all parties urged
the man, if he knew any thing about the game, to give
his opinion, upon the fairness of Hamilton's last
throw.

“I think,” said the stranger, fixing his eyes coldly
upon Hamilton, “that you have been playing with
marked dice.”

Every one started to his feet.

“Seize him, seize him,” shouted Hamilton's antagonist.

“Gentlemen,” said Hamilton, drawing himself to
his full height, “let me request of each of you, as a
particular favour, and by friendly advice, to keep his
hands to himself. The man who first touches me,
shall wish he had never been born. As to this fellow
whom you have chosen to decide between us, I
ask him to prove his assertion.”

“I say” answered the stranger, “that I think you
played part of the last game with marked dice. My
proof is simply this. Take this die (and he lifted one
from the counter) and holding it as you held the last
one, win if you can, once in a hundred throws.”

“Do you call this proof?” asked Hamilton.

“I do call it proof you dare not give,” rejoined the
other.

“I demand the money,” said Hamilton.

“Proof,” “the proof,” “he's got marked dice,”
“search him,” “seize him,” exclaimed the others.
The excitement increased.

“Gentlemen,” said Hamilton, with his former coolness,
“I say I played fairly and with common dice.
Who denies it?”

“I deny it,” said the stranger, “I deny too that
your name is Hamilton. You were called Sam Ross,
where I first knew you: and I will tell still more if
you challenge me.”

The uproar had now reached a fearful height. Nothing
but Hamilton's self-possession prevented a scuffle
which would have resulted in loss of life. At
length, through the intercession of the landlord, the
affair was compromised. Hamilton submitted to roll
up the sleeve of his coat, under which it was thought
the marked dice were concealed; and though none
were found, he refunded to his antagonist a portion of
the money.

One evening, not long after this event, a man enveloped
in a blanket coat, stood by himself, near one of
the wharves of the Mississippi, in the lower part of St.
Louis. He gazed with almost painful interest at
every passer-by. As the evening wore away, he grew
more restless, gliding at intervals when no person was
near, from one part of the street to another, and
seeming to await the approach of a comrade. About
ten o'clock, he suddenly slunk behind a broken fence
post, and remained quiet. In a few moments, a man,
clothed like himself in a large coat, turned a corner on

the opposite side, and crossing towards the wharf,
walked rapidly towards the upper part of the city.
Just as he passed the tottering post, the man stationed
there sprang towards him, and as the other turned,
seized his arm, threw it up, and struck at his breast
with a dirk knife. Happily for the traveller, the
knife's point struck on the buttons of his coat, and
glancing forward, merely bared his ribs without penetrating
them. Before the assassin could repeat the
stroke he was seized, and hurled upon the pavement.
An alarm was soon given, help soon arrived and the
intended murderer was secured. It was Samuel Ross;
the other was the stranger who had detected the false
dice.

Ross was sentenced to two years imprisonment.
He served his term in the State Prison and afterwards
went to New Orleans. But from the effects of that
long confinement he never recovered. His health
had been ruined by disease and debauchery; and
after his release, he again resumed his habits of intoxication,
his constitution yielded, and he died in the
horrors of delirium tremens. Thus was his promise
redeemed that he would be the support of his mother!

And was that mother still alive? Long after his
departure she had hoped and prayed for his return.
He came not, and the seeds of decay which he had
sown while with her, ripened into that disease of the
mind which medicine has no power to heal. She
talked wildly of her boy, and accused herself, in tones
which drew tears from the eyes of all around, for being
the cause of his crimes. One year after her son's

death, she was buried in the grave with her husband;
but she never knew that he with whom, when a boy,
she had wept over that grave, had languished in a
dungeon for attempted murder, and died the degrading
death of a drunkard. Thus the mother had
herself prevented the answer to the prayer which she
then offered for her son.