ted child,
that you just sent home with two quarts of rank poison?

(Retailer hums a tune to himself, and affects not to hear the question.)

CONSCIENCE. I see by the paper of this morning, that the furniture of
Mr. M---- is to be sold under the hammer to-morrow. Have I not often
seen him in your taproom?

RETAILER. I am extremely busy just now, in bringing up our ledger.

CONSCIENCE. Have you heard how N---- abused his family, and turned them
all into the street the other night, after being supplied by you with
whiskey?

RETAILER. He is a _brute_, and ought to be confined in a dungeon six
months at least, upon bread and water.

CONSCIENCE. Was not S----, who hung himself lately, one of your steady
customers? and where do you think his soul is now fixed for eternity?
You sold him rum that evening, not ten minutes before you went to the
prayer-meeting, and had his money in your pocket--for you would not
trust him--when you led in the exercises. I heard you ask him once, why
he did not attend meeting, and send his children to the Sabbath-school;
and I shall never forget his answer. "Come, you talk like a minister;
but, after all, we are about of one mind--at least in some things. Let
me have my jug and be going."

RETAILER. I know he was an impudent, hardened wretch; and though his
death was extremely shocking, I am glad to be rid of him.

CONSCIENCE. Are you ready to meet him at the bar of God, and to say to
the Judge, "He was my neighbor--I saw him going down the broad way, and
I did every thing that a Christian could do to save him?"

RETAILER. (Aside. O that I could stifle the upbraidings of this cruel
monitor.) You keep me in constant torment. This everlasting cant about
_rank poison, and liquid fire, and blood, and murder_, is too much for
even a Christian to put up with. Why, if any body but Conscience were to
make such insinuations and charges, he would be indictable as a foul
slanderer, before a court of justice.

CONSCIENCE. Is it _slander_, or is it _because I tell you the truth_,
that your temper is so deeply ruffled under my remonstrances? Suppose I
were to hold my peace, while your hands are becoming more and more
deeply crimsoned with this bloody traffic. What would you say to me,
when you come to meet that poor boy who just went out, and his drunken
father, and broken-hearted mother, at the bar of God? Would you thank
your conscience for having let you alone while there was space left for
repen