THE FOUNTAIN AND THE BOTTLE; COMPRISING! THRILLING EXAMPLES i . OF THE OPPOSITE EFFECTS OF TEMPERANCE AND INTEMPERANCE. EDITED BY 4 21 Son of temperance. L \ BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY HORACE WENTWORTH, 86 WASHINGTON STREET, 1851. t — — ■ ■ —— --- - - . Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by CASE, TIFFANY A N 1) C 0., in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States for the Dis^ trict of Connecticut. PREFACE. The motive which has influenced the editor in the pre paration of this volume, is to furnish a standard reading book for the temperance fireside, and the family circle of all who are interested in the great work of benevolence now going on among our fellow men. That work has been faithfully carried forward amid every difficulty. In all parts of our land where, but a few months since, we might have found the haggard and wan face, and withered form of a heart-broken wife, toiling incessantly in a wretched hovel to earn a scanty morsel of bread for her starving children, we may now dis¬ cover the glad hearts and cheerful faces of that wife and those little ones, gathered round a pleasant fireside, no longer dreading the return of the father in anticipation of abuse and outrage, but fondly clinging to him as their pro¬ tector, and gratefully blessing his reformation as productive to all, of health and contentment, peace and plenty. The victim of intemperance is not now shut out from the sympathy and kind attentions of his fellow men, as one stricken with the plague, fit only to die. Kind and sympa¬ thizing hands are every where offered to pour the oil and wine of pity and hope into his desponding heart; to teach him to rise above the state into which he has fallen—to shelter him in the ark of total abstinence, from the flood of VI PREFACE. folly and sin that threatens to ingulf him. He is now made to feel that he has friends who are laboring, hoping, praying for his repentance and recovery. They teach him, what he too often forgets or disbelieves, that he is yet a man and has a man’s duty to perform. They show him his faithful wife— whose love he has so long repaid with slights, and whose counsels he has spurned—they show her to him, watching for his return, and praying for his reformation through long and sleepless nights of sorrow, and teach him how he should value her devoted love. They remind him of the talents God has given, and still continues to him, and of his faculties for the attainment of Heaven, and the use he may still make of them. They teach him that he can yet be a man, and they inspire him with the determination to be a good man and a useful man. He learns to know wherein his danger lies, and he comes to the Throne of Grace for strength to resist his temptations. He lives in daily walk with God, depending continually upon His arm for the salvation which he knows his own strength cannot effect. He realizes the frightful nature of the precipice upon the brink of which he has been standing, and his heart beats with gratitude to his Preserver for his deliverance. In his gratitude for this, other mercies rise before him, and the sense of the unthankful life he has been leading fills him with contrition, and makes him the more anxious “to bring forth fruits meet for repentance.” His whole life is changed; he who was but recently a wretched, worthless drunkard, has become an attentive husband, a kind parent, a good citizen, and an exemplary Christian. I PREFACE. Yll Such fruits are produced by the labours of the friends of Total Abstinence. Truly they have their reward. They may not live to see the curse of intemperance wholly taken from the land, yet their cause is a holy and a righteous one, and it must finally triumph. And every effort they make for the propagation of its principles among their fellow men, will react upon their own hearts with a mighty in flu- ence for good. In seeking to bless others, they themselves are doubly blessed. Let them neither pause nor faint in the glorious work. To remind them of past success, and to stimulate them to renewed and more vigorous efforts in the future, is the object of this book. Its contributors are found among the most active and zealous friends of the temperance cause, and at the same time in the very front rank of the authors of our times. Their delineations are drawn from nature with masterly hands, and the pictures they present cannot fail to be gratifying to every lover of his fellow man, and en- dearing to the friends of Temperance. In laying the book before the public, the editor would say that he will be abund¬ antly rewarded should it be the humble means of enlisting but one honest-hearted labourer in the sacred cause of Tem¬ perance—should it cause but one brand to be plucked from the burning. Philadelphia, 1850 . Mike Smiley— By Father Frank, . Emma Alton— By Mrs. Caroline H. Butler, .... The Fear of Ridicule— Anonymous, . The Spoiled Child— By D. Strock, Jr., . Dr. Gray and his Daughter— By J. R. Orton, Brother and Sister— By T. S. Arthur, . Charley Randolph— By Francis C. Woodworth, A Single Glass of Wine —By Mrs. R. S. Harvey, . John Hinckley— By Mrs. C. M. Kirkland, .... The Last Interview— ByJD. Strock, Jr., .... The Drunkard’s Dream— From the Dublin University Magazine, The Raftman’s Oath— By D. Strock, Jr., . . It’s only a Drop— From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, Charles Clifford— By D. Strock, Jr., . James Blair— By Grace Greenwood, ..... Karl and Corinne— By Mrs. Mary B. Horton, The Drunkard’s Death— By Charles Dickens, Pledge by Moonlight— By D. Strock Jr., .... Steps to Ruin— By Mrs. Jane C. Campbell, .... Ned Summers the Cabin-boy— By D. Strock, Jr., . . TnE Emigrant’s Wife— By D. Strock, Jr., .... The Temperance Lecture— By D. Strock, Jr., The Man who enjoyed Himself— By Henry Travers, Twelve O’clock— By Henry Travers, . Paying for Sport— By Henry Travers, . Locked Out— By D. Strock, Jr., . The Man who made a Beast of Himself— By Henry Travers, The Temperance Grocer— By D. Strock, Jr., George Sandford— By D. Strock, Jr., . .... 9 48 61 65 79 102 142 153 166 177 186 205 214 235 258 283 299 319 333 341 359 372 383 398 404 411 422 431 442 * <1 ' /. ' * / • ■ . > % . - . c . -V , l , y , * ‘ * • t Mike Smiley saying Eugene Ralston,. Ralston at the Fox-hunt,. Results of Intemperance—Doings at Zeb's Village before the Reform,.. Zeb’s Village after the Reform—Farmer selling his Crop, . Tailpiece,. Emma Alton,. The Death of the First-born,. Headpiece, . .. Tailpiece,.. The Spoiled Child,. The Drunkard in Prison,. Henrietta Gray,. The Glee Club,. Tailpiece,. Tailpiece, * . Death of Dr. Gray,. Tailpiece,. Mary and Alfred at their Mother's Grave, Mary praying for her Brother,. Mart visits Alfred in Prison,. Charley Randolph’s Farm,. Death of Charles Randolph,. Headpiece,. .... Tailpiece,. John IIinchley,. Tailpiece,. Headpiece,. .... Tailpiece,. 8 20 20 36 41 47 48 55 61 64 65 76 78 82 86 93 99 101 107 126 133 147 151 153 165 167 176 177 185 (xi) Xll ILLUSTRATIONS. The Drunkard and Pat Connel at the Tavern, • • 201 Tailpiece, • • • • • 204 The Raftmen, . • • • • • 205 Tailpiece, • • • • • 213 Ellen Murphy, • • • • • 214 WiTcn Stacy, . • • • • • 223 Stacy wandering in the Woods, • • • 231 Clifford visited by Greene, • • • • 234 Clifford and his Sister, • • • • 250 Headpiece, « • • • • 258 Death of Mrs. Blair, • • • • • 265 Tailpeice, • • • • 282 Corinne, . • • • • • 283 Warden and the Officers at the Public House, • • 310 Tailpiece, • • • • • 318 Moonlight Excursion, • • • • • 319 Tailpiece, • • • • • 330 James Boynton after his Fall, • • • 332 Tailpiece, • • • • • 340 Storm at Sea, • • •• • • 341 The Wreck, • • • • • 353 Tailpiece, • • • • 356 Caroline Wooed, • • • 358 Caroline after her Marriage, • • • 363 Tailpiece, • • • • • 371 The Harvesters discussing the Temperance Lecture, • 379 Tailpiece, • • • • • 382 An Inebriate, • • • • • 383 The Tavern Lounger, • • • • • 397 Mr. Guzzler, • • • • • 398 Tailpiece, • • • • . # • 410 Headpiece, • • • • • 411 Dr. LianTFOOT, • • • • • 418 Tailpiece, • • • • • 421 Mr. Gnipen wheeled home drunk, • • • 422 Tailpiece, • • • • • 430 The Temperance Grocer, • • • • 431 A NiGnT Scene, • • • • • 437 Meeting of the Brothers f • • • • 445 Tailpiece, »• • • • • 448 ( 8 ) THE BANNER OE TEMPERANCE. MIKE SMILEY. By Father Frank. “ Such stuff are Y ankees made of.” CHAPTER I. ✓ There is a small village on the west bank of the Connecticut, not many miles from the point where the boundaries of three states meet. The houses, at the time our tale commences, were few and scattered ; and there was nothing in the aspect of the greater part of them that would either attract the attention or invite the stay of the passing traveller. They were low, dark, without ornament, either of architecture, or hor¬ ticulture, and almost without any of the ordinary signs of comfort, which so commonly accompany the cottage of a New England farmer. The fences which here and there appeared in broken patches, straggling, or rather staggering from field to field, or from house to ($» 10 THE BANNER OF TEMPERANCE. house, indicated both the care and thrift of a former generation which placed them there in due order and stability, and the degeneracy of the present, which had left them to decay and the winds. Every thing about the village was in keeping with the fences, and, as a matter of course, the animals and the children, (I name them in the order of apparent intelligence and cultivation,) were in no keeping at all. The fields were the best possible illustration that modern times can afford, of the garden of the sluggard, so well de¬ scribed by Solomon; except that, in this case, the soil seemed to be so utterly exhausted, that even the brier refused to grow there, and the thistle scorned to be seen in the stinted growth to which alone it could attain. The white-headed children, and the equally white-bodied pigs, among whom they played and rolled in their dirt, as their tit companions and equals, gave to the passer-by the only signs of life the village afford¬ ed, save when, occasionally, a broken-down, withered figure of a woman, issued from the door of her hut, to draw water from the common well, or gather up a few chips, or, more probably, abstract another rail from the useless fence, to keep alive the scanty embers that were smoking on the cheerless hearth. It was about noon of a sultry day in August, when a traveller on horseback rode slowly through the village, on his way to the mansion of a friend, about live miles above, on the banks of the river, but within the pre¬ cincts of the same town, of which the villam was a part. He was tall, well formed, and handsome. His dress was that of a sportsman, and a beautiful pointer MIKE SMILEY. 11 that panted lazily after him, with his feverish tongue hanging as if it would drop from his mouth, confirmed the suspicion suggested by his dress. The horse and the rider were evidently equally languid and fatigued ; and at every cottage as they passed, there seemed to be on the countanence of each an expression of despairing disappointment, that no one offered any temptation for even a temporary halt to man or beast From the outward appearance, a sojourn in any of them would have been any thing but repose or refreshment to the traveller, while the shadeless aspect of the yards and fields would but leave the horse exposed to the un¬ mitigated heat of the sun. Fatigue and thirst, however, are urgent solicitors, and, in their extremes, not over fastidious. They would not be denied; and our traveller, after turning in disgust from seven, made a desperate resolve that at all events the next house should furnish what it could for his relief. As he approached it, his courage began to fail, for, if possible, it looked more cheerless than any he had passed. But his mind once made up, he seldom allowed himself to hesitate ; and, with a firm hand he turned the head of his over-wearied beast towards the door of the miserable tenement in which old Zeb Smiley, familiarly known in the neigh¬ bourhood as Giant Zeb, had been for three-score and seven years content to vegetate, and to see a numer¬ ous progeny of stripling giants of the same name, awake to the same kind of equivocal life, and creep through the same kind of semi-vegetable existence. Wallowing in the dirt before the door, was the last of 12 MIKE SMILEY. the many representatives of Giant'Zeb, to whom the name of Hopeful Mike, selected for its peculiar inap¬ propriateness, had now become as familiar as his own thoughts. Noticing the first inclination of the travel- ler to turn aside at his father’s door, he scrambled up from the dirt, shook his rags, somewhat as a shaggy water-dog would do on emerging from the water; and with a regard for decency which appeared singular in such a place, and such a person, adjusted the more important of them, so as to make them as available as possible. Finding that the traveller was actually in¬ tent upon alighting, Mike made bold to seize the bri¬ dle, and to ask, in a very respectful manner, if he might hold the horse. “ There is little fear,” replied the stranger, “ that he will attempt to move, for he is so overcome by the heat, that he is scarcely able to put one foot before the other. If you will bring me a pail of water I will thank you.” Pleased with any thing that afforded even a momen tary relief from the stagnant monotony of mere being, Mike rushed into the hovel, and immediately re-ap¬ peared with an odd-looking, and exceedingly anti¬ quated apology for a bucket, accommodated, in the ab¬ sence of its original iron handle, with a rope which had seen much service. He was followed, on the instant, by as poor and shrivelled piece of mortality as ever claimed the name of woman, screaming after him in a tone quite above the practical gamut, between the laboured wheeze of the asthma, and the screech of ex¬ treme terror. “ You lazy, good-for-nothing little var- MIKE SMILEY. 13 mint, what are ye doing with my water ? Bring it back, this moment, or I’ll skin ye alive.” Surprised at a sight, so unusual, as a gentleman halting at her door, Mrs. Smiley no sooner put her ungainly visage out of the humble portal than she withdrew it again to consider what could be the pos¬ sible design of so unexpected a visit. Unwilling to intrude upon the rights, or disregard the wishes of even the most humble individual, the courteous stranger approached the door and apologized for the disturbance he had occasioned, by explaining the circumstance of his long and weary ride in the heat of the day, his extreme fatigue, and the absolute necessity of obtain¬ ing some refreshment for his horse before he could proceed, and adding, that he had asked of her boy the favour of a bucket of water for his horse. True politeness never fails to win its way to the heart, even of a savage. And he who would soothe and subdue a woman, has only to use a gentle cour¬ teous, conciliating address, and his purpose is accom¬ plished. In a mild and gratified tone, Mrs. Smiley assured the stranger he was entirely welcome to any thing her miserable hut could afford, which was little enough, to be sure, for such a gentleman. She wished it was better, but- “ I beg you will make no apologies,” interrupted the stranger. “ It is I who should apologize for dis¬ turbing your house, and not you for your lack of means to entertain me. It is not for myself that I need attention so much as for my beast; and, if you 14 MIKE SMILEY. will allow me, I will, see what I can do for his re¬ freshment.” While this brief conversation was going on, Mike had begun to busy himself with the horse, and he showed so much skill and aptness in hostelry, that the traveller, when he turned that way, was fain to leave to him the task he had intended to perform wuth his own hands. Heated and reeking as the noble ani¬ mal then was, it was as much as his life was worth to set before him so large a bucket of water. But Mike evidently understood his. business, though it w’ould be difficult to conjecture wffiere he had ever bad an opportunity to handle a horse before, or to learn how he should be treated. The operation occupied some ten or fifteen minutes, during wdiich the w r eary traveller sat upon a rude bench, near the door of the hovel, watching the movements of the boy, and wan¬ dering in himself how he could have acquired so much knowledge of hostelry. “You have been well taught, my boy,” said he, “in the care of horses. There are few experienced grooms who could have done it better, and certainly none who w r ould have been more faithful. Where did you learn this art ?” “ I never larnt nothing,” replied the boy, still con¬ tinuing to rub ,dow r n the breast and legs of the beast with unabated zeal, and occasionally dashing a cool handful into his nostrils. “ I never larnt nothing, only I heard Jim, the stage-driver, when he stopped one day at Uncle Nat’s shop to have a shoe fastened, scolding at Sam for giving his horses water to drink MIKE SMILEY. 15 wlien it would do them more good to put it on their legs, with a leetle washing of their tongues and noses, besides being a tarnal sight safer than drinking when they were all in a lather.” There was nothing remarkable in this long speech of Mike’s except its length ; and it is doubtful if he had ever before put so many words together in one sentence. But there was a heartiness of tone and accent about it that attracted the notice of the stran¬ ger ; and when, a few minutes after, as he was in the act of remounting his saddle, he slipped a piece of money into the hand of the astonished and delighted boy, with many thanks for the service he had rendered, he added a word of courteous encouragement, and a prediction that he would one day be master of a horse of his own. The suggestion touched the deepest chord that had ever vibrated in the heart of Hopeful Mike. Stag¬ nant and uneventful as his brief life had been, he had not been without an occasional aspiration after some¬ thing higher. He had dreamed of being something and doing something for himself. He had even soared so high in his dreams, as to imagine it possible that he might, at some future day, attain to the dig¬ nity of a stage-driver. This was his climax of human greatness. He had never seen a character of so much importance, one whose periodical arrival was so anxiously waited for and so heartily welcomed, or one whose authoritv in all matters was so absolute, as that of Jim Crawford, the good-natured driver of the Con¬ necticut river stage. 16 MIKE SMILEY. ♦ CHAPTER II. A few days after this incident, Mike was indulging himself in this day-dream of ambition, as he lay, stretched at full length on the bank of the river, in the shade of the noble elm. His thoughts could hardly be said to have any definite shape or end, but straggled on in a kind of disjointed reverie, occasion¬ ally interrupted by a low whistling soliloquy, to which he was much addicted. Suddenly, his quick ear was arrested by the distant tramping of a horse. Starting quickly up, he was surprised to see a noble animal, which he recognized at once as the same which now occupied most of his thoughts, in the act of leaping a broad ditch that intersected the field some sixty or eighty rods from the place where he was. He was fully caparisoned, but without a rider. The leap was one that by common consent would have been called impossible; but it was accomplished with apparent ease. Tossing his head wildly, the beautiful creature, the very embodiment of untameable beauty and power, flew with the speed of the wind towards a deep and broken ravine that separated the open field from a thick and tangled wood beyond. To follow at the top of his speed was only a natu¬ ral impulse with Mike. He did not ask himself w T hat was to be gained by it. The object of his pursuit was soon out of sight, but not out of hearing. Guided by MIKE SMILEY. 17 his ear, Mike kept on the chase till he caught another glimpse of the flying animal just dashing over the brow of a precipice some twenty feet high, from which he conceived it impossible that he could ever be brought back alive. In an instant more, however, he was seen darting across the interval below towards the river, into which he flung himself with a plunge, that seemed as if he had intended to span its entire breadth at a leap. Powerfully and beautifully he dashed aside the waters, and was soon on the opposite shore. The bank was high, steep, and sandy. The spot where he landed was only a little narrow shelf of rock, two or three rods in length, the bank at either end being as precipitous as that on the side. There was there¬ fore no escape except through the water. Thus sud¬ denly cut off in his flight, he paused a moment un¬ resolved, and then plunged in again, and made his way rapidly towards the other shore. Mike had watched all his motions with intense in¬ terest, and well knowing that his blood would be cooled and his mettle reduced, asw r eil as his strength much exhausted by this effort, prepared to receive him in the best way he could. Concealing himself in the thick bushes that overhung the bank, at the point where, from the direction taken, he supposed the horse would come out, he waited for that moment of suspended power, w^hen the effort to swim gives way to the struggle for a footing on the shore; and then suddenly and boldly seizing the rein, made an easy prisoner of the nearly exhausted fugitive. 18 MIKE SMILEY. Securing his charge to a tree, he began to think that it was time to look for his master. He accord¬ ingly hastened towards the place where the horse had been first seen. Reaching the other side of the gully, he gave a loud “halloo!” Hearing no response, he followed the track a few rods, till it was lost in a small thicket. Repeating his cry at the entrance of the wood, with a clear, long, earnest breath, he thought he heard a very indistinct reply, as of some one at a great distance. Raising his voice to its highest pitch, he reiterated the call. A low, faint moan, as of one in extreme pafh and weakness, now fell on his ear. Making his way quickly in the direction from which it came, he soon found the body of his late friend, the young traveller, lying in a most painful position, across the trunk of a fallen tree, and covered with blood, from a wound in the head. Exerting all the strength he could command, which was very great for one of his years, Mike raised the body from the tree, and laid it gently on the ground; placing a large tuft of moss for a pillow. He then ran to a little brook, which discharged itself into the river, a few yards below, and rolling up two of the broadest leaves he could find into a conical form, for 4 7 a cup, filled them both with water, which he dashed into the face of the wounded man. This he repeated two or three times, and then, with a sponge of moss, wiped away the blood from the temples and hair. The sufferer was so far revived by these attentions, as to open his eyes, though still unconscious. En¬ couraged by this sign of returning life, Mike renewed MIKE SMILEY. 19 his efforts. At length the lips parted, as it were, by instinct, and the cooling draught found its way to the parched tongue and throat. This w^as repeated several times, with the happiest effect. The poor man opened his eyes again, and looked about him. For some time he w T as bewildered, and it was many minutes before he could recall to his memory the countenance of his kind attendant, or account to him¬ self for his own singular situation. At length, after another full draught from the cooling brook, he was so far recovered as to be able to speak. With the warmest thanks, and assurances of a more substantial remembrance to his deliverer, from whom he had learned the story of the flight, and re-capture of his horse, he recounted the circumstances which brought him into his present sad condition. He had set out in the morning, on a fox-hunt in company with his friend, Charles Wilkins, and some of his neighbours. The party had separated at a con¬ siderable distance from each other, when suddenly the signal was given on the opposite side of the valley, and all set off at full speed in that direction. He was following rapidly, when another fox started from a little thicket, and flew across his track. In¬ stantly changing his course, he gave chase, deter¬ mined to have the sport all to himself. He was gain¬ ing fast upon his game, when, in leaping over the fallen tree, where Mike had found him, his head must have come in violent contact with the projecting point of a broken limb, which he did not see in sea¬ son to avoid it. Stunned by the blow, and thrown 3 20 MIKE SMILEY RALSTON AT THE FOX-HUNT. # backward, he fell athwart the trunk, with no power to move; and in that position he must have lain a full- half hour or more, when Mike discovered him. A half hour longer, and probably life would have been extinct. As soon as he felt able to be left alone for a few minutes, Mike was despatched for assistance. A lit¬ ter was brought, the sufferer was carefully placed upon it, and, followed, by his horse, which Mike had the proud satisfaction of being permitted to lead, con- 21 i MIKE SMILEY. % veyed back to tbe house of liis friend, Charles Wil¬ kins. From that day a new era dawned upon the hopes of Hopeful Mike. Eugene Ralston—for that was the name of his patron, whose life he had so sin¬ gularly been instrumental in saving—immediately claimed him as his own, and, with the ready consent of his parents, installed him as groom to his favourite charter. His rags were exchanged for a neat suit of o o o iron-gray cassimere, a glazed cap with a broad gilt band, and other equipments to correspond. The story of his kind attentions, and ready ingenuity in reliev¬ ing the distressed sportsman, as well as his success in waylaying and capturing his horse, was in every body’s mouth. His name was honourably mentioned in the newspapers, in connexion with the accident that had befallen Mr. Ralston. And it was now mani¬ fest to. all, that, if there was any thing in Mike to build upon, his fortune was made. CHAPTER III. Eugene Ralston belonged to one of the most re¬ spectable and wealthy families in New England ; and Mike, as the preserver of his life, was the object of the regard and gratitude of all his friends. He was immediately placed at school, where he made such 22 MIKE SMILEY. rapid progress, as, in the course of a few months, to shoot ahead of some who had enjoyed the same privi¬ leges from their earliest childhood. Emerging so suddenly from the total darkness and stagnant inactivity of his early life, into the broad blaze of comfort, intelligence, and respectability, it would not have been surprising if he had been en¬ tirely overcome by the change, and thrown into the back-ground. But there was, in the original elements of his character, something substantial to build upon. He could not have remained in his own native village to the age of manhood, without rising above the level of all about him. And now, when he had every ad¬ vantage, and every encouragement, which the glorious system of New England education could afford, he seemed, almost at a single stride, to measure the dis¬ tance between midnight and morning—between the condition of semi-barbarism and that of civilization and refinement, such as is found in the metropolis. Every thing was new—every thing was surprising. He could sometimes hardly believe the evidence of his senses, or realize that the race of beings with whom he was now associated was a part of the same family with those among whom he had always lived. He was less dazzled by the splendour and luxury of the city, than awed and elevated by the sense of human power, as exhibited in the wonderful achievements of intelligence, skill, and industry. Young as he was, lie perceived, almost at a glance, that it was not so much wealth, as a w T ell-directed intelligence, and a high moral estimate of the true ends and aims of life, MIKE SMILEY. 23 that constituted the difference between the state of society to which he was now introduced, and that which he had left. And he at once resolved that no effort should be wanting on his part, to secure all the advantages which his new situation afforded him. He therefore applied himself with a diligence and zeal that could not have failed, even with powers far infe¬ rior to his own, to reap a large and rich reward. His progress was rapid and easy; so much so, that a year had not passed before Mr. Ralston perceived, that to carry out his original design, of attaching Mike to himself as a servant, wmuld be doing him great injus¬ tice. He not only made himself acquainted with every subject that was brought before him, but he mastered it; as far at least as he had means to do so. And the attempt to hold him in a subordinate situation, could not have been long successful, if it bad been made. It was as much to the credit of Mike’s heart, as his progress in learning was to that of his head, that, from the very dawning of his better fortune, he never lost sight of his parents, or his native village. He denied himself every indulgence for the pleasure of contri¬ buting to the comfort of his mother. Many w r ere the tokens of kindness sent to her during the year ; and they were always such as were best adapted to her circumstances. It was nearly two years from the time that Mike left home, before he w r as able to make his parents a visit. And then, when his old friend, Jim, the stage- driver, drew up at the door of his father’s hut, instead of leaping out, as he thought he should, and shouting 24 MIKE SMILEY. at the top of his voice, he buried his face in his hands, and burst into tears. He had never realized, till that moment, the utter desolation of the home of his youth, the entire absence of all that constitutes the comforts of life, in the lot of his parents. “ Halloo there, Mike, what are you about ?” said Jim, throwing down the steps of the stage with a slam that brought Mrs. Smiley to the door, to see what was the matter. In an instant the tears were wiped away, and Mike was in his mother’s arms. Poor woman! she could hardly believe her eyes. Was it possible that this brave-looking young man was her own Mike! She put him from her a moment; and examined him from head to foot, without saying a word, and then, with all a mother’s heart, strained him to her bosom, saying, “ Mike, you are a good boy, Mike, to remem¬ ber your poor old mother,” and then burst into tears. Jim wiped a drop from his eye, as he mounted his box and drove off, saying to himself, “ Well, I have heard of people crying for joy, but I never believed it before.” It was a sad visit for poor Mike. Every blessing that he had enjoyed during the last two years, every comfort lie possessed, was now remembered only to aggravate the contrast between his own lot, and that of his parents. It made him perfectly miserable to look about him; for he felt that as yet, he had no power to effect any substantial change in their con¬ dition. He poured out the fulness of his heart to his mother, who was so happy in the good fortune of her boy, as never to have thought that any material change in her own lot could result from it. o (26) MIKE SMILEY. 27 “ But what can I do, mother ?” said Mike, earnestly, “ what can I do ? I must, and will do something. It makes me perfectly miserable to have so many com¬ forts, while you are so poor and wretched. God help¬ ing me, it shall not be.” Starting suddenly up, as he said this, he was met by Giant Zeb, who tumbled in at the door, just in time to hear the ]ast words. “What’s that that shall not be? and who’s that that says so?” stammered the old man, with the pe¬ culiar tone and accent, or, rather, with the accentless and toneless utterance of an habitual inebriate. Mike w r as struck aback in a moment. His cup w r as full—he could not speak. His father tumbling stupidly into the first chair he could reach, did not notice him, and he stood a moment as in doubt whether to speak, or to steal away and weep alone. But the doubt was instantly dissipated by the sharp voice of his mother, screaming bitterly, “ Why, Zeb, so drunk that you can’t see Mike?” “Father,” said Mike, extending his hand, “don’t you know me ?” “ Know you ?—let me see,” replied the old man, rousing himself up,—“ what you, Mike ? Why, what a fine gentleman!—come, go down to Tim’s, and treat all round, by w r ay of welcome home. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mike—fine gentleman—plenty of money now— let’s have another drink.” It was with much difficulty that the old man was diverted from this thought. Fie was too far gone to reason. After some time Mike succeeded in coaxing 28 MIKE SMILEY. him to lie down on the bed, where he soon fell into a deep sleep, from which he did not awake till a late hour the next morning. Mike did not close his eyes that night. He was in a perfect agony of spirit. The wholeHruth had flashed upon his mind in an instant, when the giant frame of his father, reduced to the feebleness of infancy, with scarcely the instinct of a brute, left to guide its motions, tumbled in at the door of his hut, and settled, rather than sat down, in the broken chair by his side. He wondered he had not seen it before. Here was the whole secret of the poverty and wretchedness about him.— Rum, rum; that was the fire that had eaten out the substance and the souls of all that deso¬ late village, and consumed parents and* children for many generations. It was like a new revelation to his mind. He had seen men intoxicated a thousand times before. He had seen gentlemen, as they were called, carried home in a state of helplessness, from a dinner-party, and from the society of ladies, who had furnished the temptation, and plied it wdth all the seductive arts of flattery which woman has ever at command. It w r as a national epidemic; and no eye had yet been opened to measure, and no voice raised to deprecate its fearful ravages, though myriads of hearts had been made desolate by it, though widows and orphans had perished by millions in its path, and the almshouses and the graveyards of the country w T ere teeming with its annually increasing multitudes of victims. r MIKE SMILEY. 29 CHAPTER IV. The subject had taken such hold of Mike’s thoughts, that it excluded all others. He could not sleep that night. He did not even attempt it; but sat down near a little old table, and leaning upon his elbows, with his face upon his hands, he endeavoured to mea¬ sure the length, and depth, and height, and breadth of that awful evil. For a long time he was overwhelmed with its magnitude and omniprevalence. To move it, seemed like re-constructing the whole framework of society. He did not know where it was possible to make a beginning. At length he remembered that nothing was ever accomplished without a beginning; and beginnings always seem very feeble and inade¬ quate to their end; and the world laughs at them. But upon them all revolutions depend. “ And so,” said he, striking his hand upon the table, with some violence, “I’ll begin: but how? where?” and he pondered long and deeply. “ Let me see,” said Mike, at length, as he broke from his reverie, and drew out a pencil and paper from his pocket, “ how much does it cost my poor father every year for . rum ? He drinks, upon the average, and has done so, probably, for fifty years, six glasses of rum a-day. This, at four cents a glass, is a quarter of a dollar a-day, or a dollar and three quarters every week, or ninety-one dollars a year. ♦ 30 MIKE SMILEY. Ninety-one dollars a year F exclaimed the astonished youth; “ and this, in fifty years, amounts to—what? impossible!— four thousand five hundred and FIFTY DOLLARS ! !” Mike was overwhelmed with the results of these simple calculations. “ Four thousand , five hundred and fifty dollars ! for one man to consume in making a beast of himself. What a little fortune that would be !” Mike went on. “ The man who spends this sum for rum, loses at least twice as much every year, in being unfitted for labour; and as much more in the waste and destruction of his goods and property—the health and comfort of his family which result from intemperance. Here then, is more than twenty thou¬ sand dollars , which one man has sacrificed to the ap¬ petite for strong drink. And there are—let me think —one, two, three—twenty men, in this poor, desolate village, each of whom has been as deeply devoted to his cup as my father ; and what does all this amount to ? Four hundred thousand dollars ! ! Ah ! I see through it all; enough to make any man a prince; and this accounts for the fact, that Tim Cochrane is the only man in the .village who owns a decent house, or ever has any thing comfortable for his family. All this money goes into his pocket. Ah! I have it—I have it-” Mike could scarcely wait for the morning, so eager was he to lay these astounding results before his father and the neighbours. They grew' upon his imagination every moment, as the night advanced; and, at the earliest peep of day, having commended himself and i MIKE SMILEY. 31 his cause to God, he left his little room, and sallied out into the field, to refresh himself for the day’s work that was before him. He had found a place to begin it, and he was resolved, however hopeless it might seem, to begin at once, and do what he could. He could not refrain from opening his budget first to his mother; for he felt bitterly, how terribly she had suffered from that dreadful scourge. But the poor woman had suffered so long that it seemed to her as necessary and unavoidable as death. She had never dreamed of relief or comfort, but in the grave. She stared wildly, when Mike told her of the money that had been worse than wasted, in that poor, desolate place. She did not believe there was so much money in the world. “ Ah ! it is no use, Mike,” said she, “ it’s no use ; you might as well try to stop the river flowing.” But Mike would not think so; and he waited for his father to rouse himself from that death-like apathy But he found him a desperately hard subject. He would not believe the figures. He would not believe any thing. Besides, he could as well live without air as without rum. Mike was as persevering as his father was obstinate. He would not leave him till he had made him count it over his fingers, and reckon it up for himself; and then he was obliged to acknowledge, that his rum cost him within a fraction of one hundred dollars a year. He did not suppose, at first, that he ever had as much money in any one year of his life. He was really alarmed. “ But come,” said he, “let’s go down to Uncle Nat’s and see what he’ll say to it.” 32 MIKE SMILEY. Mike felt ready to face the whole world, for he knew he was right; he knew that figures, if placed right, always tell the truth. So he accompanied his father to Uncle Nat’s. The smithy w r as next door to Tim Cochrane’s ; and there was never a shoe set, or a nail driven, that Tim did not reap the benefit of it. In that smithy, before an audience of some ten or twelve of the most ragged, squalid, filthy looking beggars that were ever brought together in one place, out of the almshouse, was delivered, by Mike Smiley, the first tee-total temperance lecture that ever was attempted in these United States. The congregation was motley, irregular, and not so thoroughly open to conviction as could have been desired. It was some time before Mike could gain any thing like general attention. But when Uncle Nat, who was considered good at figures, had examined the whole statement carefully marking it down with chalk on the dingy walls of his shop, and finally, though very reluctantly, was com- \ pelled to acknowledge that it was entirely correct, the whole company opened their eyes wide with astonish¬ ment, and stood gaping at each other, as if they had lost the power of speech. At this moment, Mike jumped upon the anvil, with his paper in his hand, and commenced a set speech. He explained fully the results to which his figures led, and showed clearly, that there was not a man be¬ fore him who had not already expended in rum, and in the losses occasioned by rum, a handsome fortune. He pointed to their fields, which might have been, if properly cared for, as rich and fruitful as any on the M IKE SMILEY. 33 banks of their noble river. He pointed to their hovels, and asked what made the degrading contrast between them and the palaces of some of the farmers of that beautiful valley. He pointed to their wives, who were little better than slaves, leading a miserable, half-starved, comfortless life, in the midst of a land flowing with milk and honey. He pointed to their children—but he could not sketch that picture—and then to their own persons, and the sketch he gave of them was such as actually made those hardened old sots bl ush and feel ashamed to be seen of each other. Mike saw his advantage. “ I am but a boy,” said he, “and why do I speak so? Because I love you. I am one of you ; bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh. There is my father; and there, yonder,” wiping a tear from his eye, “ my poor old mother. You are all my friends; and I cannot bear to go back to the comforts and blessings which are provided for me, in my new home, and feel that I have left you in this unhappy condition. Have I not told you the truth ? Is it not rum that makes all the difference between us ? How many comforts would not that hundred dollars a year purchase for your wives and children ! How differently would your houses look if you should spend it upon them ! How differently would you look if you should spend it in clothing, and in whole¬ some food. How differently would this whole vil¬ lage look if that four hundred thousand dollars, which you have drunk up in rum, had been laid out in improving your lands, repairing and ornamenting, your houses, educating your children, making your 34 MIKE SMILEY. wives comfortable, and making men—yes, making men —of yourselves ! Are you men now ? Look at your¬ selves—look at each other—are you men ? Do you look as if you had minds ?—souls ?—-hearts ?” Surprised at his own boldness, Mike jumped down from his rostrum, and taking his father by the hand, begged he would forgive him if he had spoken too plainly. The whole audience was confounded. They had been taken by surprise. Every man of them was convinced; but habit long indulged gains a terrible advantage over conscience. An impression was made, but it needed to be followed up, blow upon blow, to make it effective and lasting. Giant Zeb was the first to break silence, “ I tell you what, Uncle Nat,” said he, “the boy’s right. But what can we do?” “ Do ?” answered Tim Cochrane, who stepped in just at this moment from behind the door, where he overheard the whole ; “do ? come into my shop, and I’ll tell you what to do.” The whole charm was broken in an instant. In vain did Mike plead and beseech his father not to go. In vain did he remind them of all his figures. Uncle Nat led the way and they all followed. What fol¬ lowed that, need not be told. RESULTS OF INTEMPERANCE.-DOINGS AT ZEB S VILLAGE BEFORE THE REFORM 4 ■ \ • ' ' MIKE SMILEY. 37 CHAPTER V. Mike made a very prudent use of all the little sav ings of his wages, in putting the house into more com¬ fortable order for his mother. When he returned to Mr. Ralston’s he took an early opportunity to call the at¬ tention of that gentleman to the figures he had made at home. Mr. Ralston, though a temperate man for those days, was astonished at the result. He gave the subject his serious attention. He assisted Mike in getting at some further statistics upon the subject. Mike pursued it with the ardour of a man whose heart is in his work. The further he proceeded the more he was astonished—overwhelmed. At length, he ven¬ tured to put his investigations in the form of an essay, which he sent to one of the leading journals of the city, with the signature, “ Total Abstinence.” That article was the leader of one of the might¬ iest revolutions that ever swept over the face of so¬ ciety. It was copied into all the papers. It attracted universal attention. It was talked of in all the streets, and at every table, and at every fireside. It was fierce¬ ly attacked on every side, and that by some of the ablest pens in the nation. But its positions were im¬ pregnable. Not one of them was ever refuted, or even so much as shaken. They are to this day, the grand colossal columns that support the central dome of the Temple of Temperance. 38 MIKE SMILEY. This essay was followed up by others, by the same hand. And when, by-and-by, it came out, that the mover of all this far-reaching excitement, was an humble lad scarcely nineteen years of age, in an in¬ ferior station in society, the excitement became still deeper and more general. Mike was called out—not to fight, as would perhaps have been the case if all this had happened elsewhere—but to explain himself more fully. So well had he availed himself of the advantages to which his relation to Mr. Ralston had introduced him, that he did not hesitate, after consultation with that gentleman, and receiving his approbation, to pro¬ pose a public lecture. This was attended by a crowd¬ ed audience, who were astounded at the fearful pic¬ ture of the then state of our country. So many de¬ sired to hear it who could not be accommodated, that it was necessary to repeat it. Then it was called for in other places. Every where it produced a marked impression. It excited inquiry. It provoked discus¬ sion. It led to self-examination. Mike’s hands were now full. He had made his beginning, and a noble beginning it was. But where was it to end ? What was the remedy for the tremen¬ dous evils that were consuming the vitals of society. On this point the young orator allowed no compro¬ mise. It was “ total abstinence ! ” and he laid it down with great emphasis, showing clearly that this was the only ground on which the intemperate could ever hope to become temperate or the temperate to re¬ main so. MIKE SMILEY. 39 The results of that grand moral movement are well known. Look abroad over our fair land, and see mil¬ lions of acres then arid and sterile, now blooming and fruitful; thousands and tens of thousands of hearths then desolate, now cheerful and bright as the early remembrance of home—countless broken widowed hearts made whole by the returning sunshine of love and plenty, and whole families, yea, whole commu¬ nities, then dispersed, divided, hovering around the purlieus of the almshouse or the prison, now gather¬ ed, united, industrious, intelligent—as if it were a na¬ tion born in a day, or a whole tribe redeemed from servile bondage. Men, fathers, husbands, legislators, teachers, once raving, delirious, fierce, brutal, now clothed and in their right minds, risen as it were from the second death, and standing erect, beloved and ho¬ noured, in the high places of our land. Discouraging as was the prospect in his native vil¬ lage, Mike did not despair. He was frequently there, and so diligently and faithfully did he ply the argu¬ ments and persuasions of a heart warm to the life in his subject, that he succeeded, at length, in obtaining a solemn promise from his father that he would try the experiment for one year. Zeb Smiley was a man of more than ordinary natural abilities, and his reso¬ lution, once taken, was proverbially unchangeable. By his influence, Uncle Nat was brought to the same stand. Both of them signed their names to the same paper, and thus each became a sentinel over the other The whole neighbourhood of tipplers was in conster¬ nation. Tim Cochrane was in a rage. His craft 40 MIKE SMILEY. was in danger. In his passion, he pounced upon Uncle Nat’s forge and tools, to secure the balance of his score at the counter, and turned him out of his shop. The effect of this was salutary. Uncle Nat and Zeb immediately went off together at the sugges¬ tion of Mike, and, by his aid, secured a valuable con tract for labour in clearing anew road, which furnished full and profitable employment for the whole season They laboured side by side, encouraging and strength¬ ening each other. And daily, as the effects of their old habits wore off, and their strength, physical and mental, increased, they found their toils grow T sweet¬ er and lighter. Mike continued his labours in the village, till he obtained the names of more than two- thirds of the old topers to his pledge. By the aid of Mr. Ralston, he set up a temperance store, which was kept by one of his cousins ; and, before the year was out, Tim Cochrane was obliged to move away for want of customers to sustain his business. Go through that village now, and what a change ! The houses are all neatly painted or white-washed, the fences in good repair, the fields waving with plentiful harvests, or green and blooming with the first pro¬ mise of the year. The daily gathering of bright-faced, happy throngs of children to the school-house, and the Sabbath meeting of a grave, decent, devout con¬ gregation of parents in the house of God, all tell of the marvellous, the almost miraculous change that has come over the scene. If the story had been told fif¬ ty, or even twenty years ago, it would have been set down for fiction—a picture that might look well on ZEB’S TILLAGE AFTEB THE nEFDBM,—FAU5IEB SELLI5TG HIS CHOP ( 41 ) MIKE SMILEY. 43 paper, but could never be reduced to real life. But we have seen it with our own eyes. We know the spot. We know many of them, and if it is worth a voyage across the Atlantic to see Herculaneum and Pompeii recovered, all dead and silent and soulless, from the burial of ages, what is it not worth to the heart of a philanthropist, to see hamlets and villages and towns recovered from a moral burial, and not only dwellings and fields thrown open to the reviving light and showers of heaven, but their occupants restored to life, and health, and beauty, and men, women, and children, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, young men and maidens, rejoicing together, and bless¬ ing God and each other in their marvellous resurrec- tion from the dead. CHAPTER VI. / Mike Smiley now became an object of public no¬ tice. Mr. Ralston, who was struck with his singular ability to master whatever he undertook, encouraged him to prosecute his studies to the utmost, freely ad¬ vancing him all the means necessary to the accom¬ plishment of an object so near his heart. When his education was completed, and he was admitted to the bar, Mr. Ralston took him into his own office, the bet¬ ter to introduce him to the routine of business. He had been but a few months in this situation, when a singular accident occurred, which greatly as- 44 MIKE SMILEY. sisted in bringing him into the very foreground of his profession. Mr. Ralston had been engaged in a very important case, which had been, contested for many years, and which was now about to be brought to a close. The parties were both eager for an immediate issue, but Mr. Ralston’s client had procured a long delay, in order to bring up some witnesses, who had been long absent at sea. All was now ready, and the day of trial fixed. Mike, who, in hunting up autho¬ rities, copying and comparing documents, and writing out heads of arguments, had made himself acquainted with all the principles involved, as well as with the facts in the case, had entered it with all the energy and ardour of his soul. The court was held in a county-town, about thirty miles from the city. Mike, or rather, Mr. Smiley, had gone thither by the stage. Mr. Ralston, for the benefit and pleasure of the exer¬ cise, went on horseback, on the same noble steed by whose means our young hero was first made ac¬ quainted with his patron, and now partner. The horse was somewhat advanced in years, but had lost very little of his early fire and beauty. A few miles from the city it w r as necessary to cross a bridge, over a narrow creek, or arm of the sea, in the middle of which was an ill-constructed draw, for the benefit of vessels occasionally passing up and down the creek. The draw had been opened that morning, and though apparently replaced, was not properly secured. Mr. Ralston was the first to pass over it, and, being in a profound study upon the knotty points of his case, did not perceive that anv MIKE SMILEY. 45 thing was out of the way. No sooner, however, was his full weight brought upon the draw, than it gave way at once, and • plunged both the horse and his rider into the deep water below. With singular presence of mind, though not with¬ out great difficulty, Mr. Ralston kept his seat in the saddle ; and his noble steed, not unused to the water, rising to the surface, struggled bravely to reach the shore. Here, however, was a difficulty, almost insur¬ mountable. Though the creek was narrow, the bank was absolutely perpendicular, and of a soft clayey consistency, that allowed nothing like a foothold. After many unsuccessful attempts, Mr. Ralston be¬ thought himself of an expedient to effect his own es¬ cape, if he could not save his horse. Suddenly spring¬ ing to his feet upon the saddle, he gave a powerful leap toward the bank, and just succeeded in gaining it, so as to secure himself by grasping the long, tough grass on its edge. He now took a rail from the fence near by, and proceeded to break away the sharp angle of the bank, in the hope that it might make a path for his horse. In this he was so far successful, that, in half an hour from the time he commenced, he was enabled to remount, and ride home. Fortunately he had emerged from the creek on the side towards the city, and was, therefore, not obliged to go round a great distance, in order to procure a change of clothing. The season was October; and an exposure for so long a time, to the cold air, in wet clothing, was not without serious consequences. Mr. Ralston was obliged to take his bed at once, where he was confined 46 M IKE S M ILEY. some weeks, with a violent fever, and in imminent danger of his life. In the mean time, the court had assembled, the par¬ ties were there, with their witnesses, and every thing waited for the arrival of Mr. Ralston. As it had been positively arranged, at the previous session, that the case should come on that day, and that a proposal for any further continuance from either of the parties, should be equivalent to a non-suit, the opposing party endeavoured to avail himself of this unexpected delay, pretending that it was a premeditated ruse , to procure a respite, which could not be had in any other w T ay. Mr. Smiley, who fortunately had the satchel, with all the papers, linding that the day was wearing away, and knowing that all would be lost, if something were not done immediately, proposed to the judge to com¬ mence the case, as Mr. Ralston would undoubtedly be there in a short time. It was a terrible step for poor Mike. Not only were hundreds of thousands pending upon the result, but Mr. Ralston’s standing and fame as a lawyer w r ere at stake. He hoped to be able to consume time in unimportant preliminaries, till his partner should arrive. His partner did not come, however, and it was not many hours before Mike knew that the whole case had devolved all at once upon him. His opponents would not listen to a postponement, though the hand of Providence had seemed to make it necessarv. And the case came on. Mike was all alone; his whole frame was agitated ; but his mind was clear and bold. He had grasped all the points in the case; he had 47 MIKE SMILEY. measured the length and breadth of his antagonist; and with the desperate energy of one who has every thing to lose, or every thing to gain, in a single throw, put forth his utmost efforts to do justice to the cause. It was a wonderful effort. The examination of the witnesses—the statement of his case—the detection and exposure of the weak points and sophistries of his opponent—the laying down of the principles of law— the argument and appeal to the jury—all of every part would have done credit to the most experienced law¬ yer of the bar. It was not only a wonderful effort, but a successful one, and Mike had the proud satis¬ faction, at the end of the week, of announcing to Mr. Ralston, in his sick room, the favourable verdict. “Onward, still onward,” was Mike’s motto. And onward, still onward, he marched, rising step by step, in influence and power, till he reached the Halls of Congress; and if he does not, at no distant day, fill the presidential chair, it will be rather because he is too straight forward and honest for any party, than because he is wanting in ability to fill the station, or ambition to aspire to it. EMMA ALTON. By Mrs. Caroline H. Butler, It was Emma’s bridal morn. I saw her standing at the door of her father’s cottage, a simple wreath of the pure lily of the valley entwined amid the rich braids of her auburn hair—the image of innocence and happiness. That morning, fair Emma Alton had given her hand where long her young affections had ( 48 ) EMMA ALTON. 49 been treasured; and to those who then saw the fine handsome countenance of Reuben Fairfield, and the pride and love with which he regarded the fair being at his side, it seemed impossible that aught but hap¬ piness could follow the solemn rites the cottage had that morning witnessed. The dwelling of my friend to whose rural quiet I had escaped from the heat and turmoil of the city, was directly opposite the neat little cottage of Emma’s parents, and as I sat at my chamber window, my eye was of course attracted by the happy scene before me. The morning was truly delightful—scarce a cloud floated o’er the blue vault of heaven—now and then a soft breeze came whispering through the fra¬ grant locust blossoms and proud catalpas, then stoop¬ ing to kiss the dewy grass, sped far off in fantastic shadows over the rich wheat and clover fields. All seemed in unison with the happiness so apparent at the cottage—the birds sang—butterflies sported on golden wing—bees hummed busily. Many of Emma’s youthful companions, had come to witness the cere¬ mony, and to bid adieu to their beloved associate, for as soon as the holy rites were concluded, Reuben was to bear his fair bride to a distant village, where already a beautiful cottage was prepared, over which shew r as to preside the charming mistress. There is always, I believe, a feeling of sadness commingled with the pleasure wfith which we regard the young and trusting bride, and as I now r looked upon E mma standing in the little portico surrounded by the bright and happy faces of her companions, her 50 EMMA ALTON. own still more radiant, I involuntarily sighed as I thought of what her future lot might be. Was my sigh prophetic ? Presently the chaise which was to convey the new-married pair to their future home, drove gaily to the gate of the cottage. I saw Emma bid adieu to her young friends as they all gathered around her. I saw her fair arms thrown around the neck of her weeping mother, and then, supported by her father and Reuben, she was borne to the carriage. Long was she pressed to her father’s heart, ere he re¬ signed her for ever to her husband. “ God bless you, my child 1” at length said the old man; but no sound escaped Emma’s lips—she threw herself back in the chaise, and drew her veil hastily over her face—Reuben sprang to her side—waved his hand to the now weeping assemblage at the cottage door, and the chaise drove rapidly away. I soon after left the village, and heard no more ot the youthful pair. Three years elapsed ere I again visited that pleasant spot, and the morning after my arrival, as I took my favourite seat, and looked over upon the little dwelling opposite, the blithe scene I had there witnessed, recurred to me, and I marvelled if all which promised so fair on the bridal morn had been realized. To my eye the cottage did not look as cheerful, the air of neatness and comfort which before distinguished it seemed lessened. I noticed the walk was now overgrown with grass, and the little flower plot, about which I had so often seen Emma employed, was now r rank with weeds. The blinds were all closely shut, and every thing about the cottage looked com- EMMA ALTON. 51 fortless and desolate. Presently the door opened, and a female appeared, bearing in her hand a small basket which she proceeded to fill with vegetables growing sparsely among the weeds and tall tangled grass. Her step was feeble, and she seemed hardly capable of pursuing her employment. As she turned her face toward me I started with surprise—I looked at her again more earnestly—is it possible—can that be Em¬ ma, thought I—can that pale, wretched looking girl be her whom I last saw a happy, blooming bride? Yes, it was Emma ! Alas ! how soon are the bright visions of youth dispelled ; like those beautiful images which flit around the couch of dreams, they can never be realized. The history of Emma is one which has often been written by the pen of truth—a tearful record of man's ingratitude and folly—of woman's all-enduring love, sufferance, and constancy. The first few months of Emma’s married life flew by in unalloyed happiness. Reuben lived but in her smiles, and life, to the young affectionate girl, seemed but a joyous holiday, and she the most joyous partici¬ pant. Too soon the scene was changed. Reuben Fairfield was of a gay and reckless nature, fond of con¬ viviality, of the jest and song, he was consequently a great favourite with the young men of the village, and there had been rumours that even before his marriage he had been too free a partaker of the wine-cup. If this were the case, months certainly passed on after that event, when Reuben seemed indifferent to any society but that of his young wife. Little by little 5 52 EMMA ALTON his old habits returned upon him, so insensibly too that even he himself could not probably have defined the time when he again found pleasure away from the home of love and Emma. In the only tavern of the village, a room was devoted exclusively to the revels of a band of reckless, dissolute young men, with whom Reuben had at one time been intimate, and it needed but the slightest appearance on the part of the latter to tolerate once*more their idle carousals, than with one consent they all united to bring back the Benedict to his old habits. They thought not of the misery which would follow the success of their fiendish plot; of the broken heart of the young being who looked up to their victim as her only hope and happiness. It was the gay spring-time, when Reuben Fairchild bore his bride away from the arms of her aged pa¬ rents ; but what became of the solemn vows he then uttered, to protect and cherish their beloved daughter ? For when next the forest trees unfolded their tender leaves, and the orchards were white with fragrant blossoms, misery and despair had fallen as a blight upon poor Emma ! The heart of affection is the last to acknowledge the errors of a beloved object, so it was with Emma; but her cheek grew pale, and her mild blue eyes dimmed beneath their wo-charged lids. Reuben now almost entirely neglected his patient, still loving wife. In vain she reasoned, entreated, implored, yet never reproached. He was alike regard¬ less; daily he gave himself up more and more to the insatiate destroyer, until destruction, both of soul and body, followed. And loud rang the laugh, and the EMMA ALTON. 53 glasses rattled, and the voice of the Inebriate shouted forth its loathsome jargon from the Tempter's Hell! There were times, it is true, when he would pause in his reckless career ; and then hope once more buoyed up the sinking heart of Emma; and when for the first time he pressed their babe to his bosom, while a tear fell on its innocent cheek, it is no wonder that the young mother felt her sorrows ended. That tear, the tear, as she thought, of repentance, had washed them all away. But when vice once gets the ascen¬ dancy, it reigns like a despot, and too soon the holy feelings of the father were lost in the intoxicating bowl. Poverty, with all its attendant ills, now came upon i the wretched wife. One by one the articles of her little menage w r ere taken from her by Reuben, to sa¬ tisfy the cravings of appetite , and with her babe she was at last forced to leave the cottage where her early days of married life so blissfully flew by, and seek shelter from the winds of heaven in a miserable hut, which only misery might tenant. The unfortunate find few friends, and over the threshold of poverty new ones seldom pass, and therefore it was that Emma was soon neglected and forgotten. There were some, it is true, who regarded her with pity and kind¬ ness, but there were also very many who pointed the finger of derision at the drunkard's wife —innocent sufferer for her husband’s vices ! At length the babe fell ill. It died, and poor, poor Emma, pale, discon¬ solate, knelt by the little cradle alone ; no sympathiz¬ ing hand wiped the tear from her eye; no kind word soothed her lacerated bosom; the earthly friend that 54 EMMA ALTON. should have sustained her under this grievous trial was not at her side, but revelling in scenes of low debauchery. That night was marked by a storm of terrific vio¬ lence. The rain poured in torrents; dreadful thun¬ der rent the heavens, the whirlwinds uplifted even the largest trees, while the incessant flashing of the light¬ ning only added tenfold horrors to the scene. But the bereaved mother, the forsaken wife heeded it not; with her cheek pressed against the scarce colder one of her dead babe, she remained for hours totally un¬ conscious of the wild war of the elements—for more complete desolation reigned in her heart. At length the door opened and Reuben entered. With an oath, * he was about to throw himself upon the straw pallet, when his eye casually fell upon the pale, marble-like face of the little babe. His senses, stupified as they were, aroused at the sight. “ What ails the child V ’ he muttered. “ Reuben, our darling babe is dead T replied Em¬ ma, lifting her pallid features to the bloated gaze of her husband. Then rising from her knees, she ap¬ proached him and led him to look upon the placid countenance of their first born. We will not dwell upon the scene; remorse and grief stirred the heart of Reuben almost to madness. On his knees he implored forgiveness of his much injured wife; he swore a solemn oath, that never again would he swerve from the path of sobriety, but that years of penitence and affection should atone for his past abuse of life and love. EMMA ALTON. 55 THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. The day came for the funeral. Reuben had pro* mised his wife that he w r ould not again leave the house until the remains of their babe had been given to the earth; he intended to keep his promise, but as the day wore on the insatiable cries of habit tempted him away. Only one glass , he thought —but another fol¬ lowed —and then another, until alike forgetful of him¬ self and his unhappy wife, he soon became grossly intoxicated. In the mean while a few^of the neighbours had as¬ sembled ; the clergyman, too, had arrived, and the fu¬ neral rites were only delayed by the absence of Reu¬ ben. Minutes wore on. “ He w r ill not come,” whispered one. “ Ah, it is easy to guess where he is,” added another, and looks of pity were turned upon the heart-stricken mother, 56 EMMA ALTON. as with her head bowed upon the little coffin she hid her grief and shame. The clergyman at length ap proaching the mourner, in a low tone demanded if the ceremony should proceed. “ Has he come ?” eagerly inquired Emma. The clergyman.shook his head. “ O wait, wait, he will be here, he promised me. O yes he will come !” But another half hour rolled on, and still Reuben came not. The neighbours now moved to depart, when rising from her seat, her pallid countenance betoken¬ ing the agony of her heart, Emma signified her as¬ sent that the solemn rites should proceed. But sudden ly in the midst of that earnest prayer for comfort and support to the afflicted mother, a loud shout was heard, and Reuben was seen staggering towards the hut. With a brutal oath he burst into the room, but hap¬ pily for poor Emma, she saw him not, the first sound of his voice had deprived her of consciousness, and she was placed fainting on the bed. Reuben was overpowered and dragged from the hut—the funeral service ended, and leaving the unconscious mother in the care of a few compassionate neighbours, the little procession wound its way to the church-yard It was nearly a year after this sad scene, that one evening a stranger alighted from the stage at the Inn, announcing his intention to remain there for the night. Entering the bar-room (for it was before the health- establishment of the temperance law) he ordered a glass of brandy, which he was about to carry to his EMMA ALTON. 57 lips, when his eye encountered the wistful gaze of Reuben Fairfield, who now without the means to al¬ lay the death-worm upon his vitals, was stretched upon a bench at one end of the room. “ I say, neighbour, you look thirsty,” ejaculated the stranger in a gay tone. “ Here, take this, for faith thou hast a lean and hungry look .” Eagerly seizing it, Reuben drained the contents of the glass to the bottom, and for a moment the worm was appeased ! The stranger now made some casual remark, to which Reuben replied in language so well chosen, and evidently so far above his apparent sta¬ tion in life, that the former was astonished, and by degrees a lively conversation took place between them, during which Reuben more than once partook of the young man’s mistaken kindness. While con¬ versing, the stranger several times drew from his pocket a handsome gold watch, and the chink of sil¬ ver fell upon the famished ears of Reuben with start¬ ling clearness. Apparently with that feeling of ennui which so often seizes upon the solitary traveller, the stranger now strolled from the bar-room into the hail, a door leading into a room opposite was open, and sounds of loud merriment attracted his eyes in that direction. A company of young men were playing at cards—without ceremony he entered, and, advanc¬ ing to the table, appeared to watch the game with some interest. He was invited to join them, and, after some hesitation accepted. Reuben had followed the young man into the room, and now eagerly watched the pile of silver, and an 58 EMMA ALTON. % occasional bank note, which rather ostentatiously, it would seem, the stranger displayed. The evening wore away, and with a promise from Reuben that he would awaken him betimes to visit a singular cave in the neighbourhood, the stranger retired to rest. Not so Reuben. A fiendish plot entered his brain —that money must he his —and even at that moment when robbery, perhaps murder, was at his heart, he dared to think of the pure-minded, innocent Emma as a sharer of his ill-gotten wealth ! All night he paced the dark forest contiguous to his abode, where long after midnight the feeble lamp shone upon the hag¬ gard features of the once lovely girl as she strove with trembling fingers to render the apparel of the inebriate decent for the morrow. As the day was breaking, Reuben passed softly into the cottage, for he knew that Emma now slept, approaching the bedside, something like a shade of pity stole over his countenance. She smiled in her sleep and called ‘upon his name—this was too much , for the miserable man. Hastily opening a table draw¬ er, he drew forth a sharp knife which he concealed beneath his coat, muttering as he did so—“ I may need it,” and then without daring to cast his eye again toward the bed, left the house and proceeded to the inn, where the stranger already awaited his arrival. With each point of view as they proceeded on their route the latter expressed himself delighted, particu¬ larly as his guide, too, endeavoured to give interest to every scene by the relation of some anecdote or history attached. At length they reached the neighbourhood EMMA ALTON. 59 of the cavern. Here the river which before had rolled so gently along, reflecting the varied hues of au¬ tumn in its trauslucent depths, now suddenly changed its course, and leaping over a precipice some thirty feet in height, pursued its way for some distance be¬ tween huge masses of shelving rocks' crowned on either side by dark gloomy forests. After a laborious descent they arrived at the mouth of the cave, situ¬ ated about mid-way down the bank. Reuben entered first, and the stranger was about to follow, when turn¬ ing suddenly upon him with a blow of giant strength, hurled him from the precipice, and he fell senseless upon the jagged rocks below! Leaping quickly down, Reuben now rifled the pockets of the unfortu¬ nate man of both money and watch, and then drew him, still breathing, up the ragged cliff and far into the cave. More than once as he saw T life yet stirred in the limbs of his victim, his hand was upon the knife—but he drew it'not forth ! Covering the body with fragments of rock and un¬ der-wood, he left the hapless man to his fate, certain that even if consciousness returned, his efforts to ex¬ tricate himself from the mass would be unavailing, and as he had taken the precaution also to closely bind his mouth, he could utter no cry for assistance. Returning now to the village, he boldly entered the inn, and stating to the landlord that the stranger had been tempted by the fineness of the morning to pursue his journey a few miles on foot, proceeded to hand him a sum of money which he said he had charged him to deliver as equivalent to the amount i 60 EMMA ALTON. due for supper and lodging. This all appeared very reasonable and no questions were asked. But ere the day was over, some boys who had strayed in the vici¬ nity of the cave, came running home pale and fright¬ ened, declaring they had heard dreadful groans issue thence, and that many of the rocks around were stained with blood ! Immediately every eye was turned to the spot where a moment before Reuben Fairfield had been standing, and although no one spoke, probably the same terrible conviction flashed through the mind of each ; but guilt is always cowardly. Reuben had already disappeared. A party of villagers immediately set forth to search the cave. The result may be imagined—the stranger was discovered still alive, although but for this timely aid, a few hours would doubtless have determined his fate. Reuben attempted to make his escape, but was soon overtaken and delivered up to justice—found guilty, and sentenced to ten years hard labour in the State Prison ! This sad history I learned from my friend ; and now poor Emma had come back to die ! Come back to that home she had left with so many bright visions of happiness before her, a heart-broken, wTetched be¬ ing. It was not long ere from the same little gate, whence but a few years before I had seen her led a happy blooming bride, I saw her coffin borne to the still graveyard ! “ Ah !” thought I, as the hot tears gathered, “ thou art but another victim at the shrine of Intemperance !” Rest thee in peace, poor Emma ! THE FEAR OF RIDICULE. One evening a short time since, five or six young men, clerks in one of our fashionable stores, were con¬ gregated together before the entrance of a noted oys¬ ter saloon. They seemed on the point of entering, when one of their number hung back, declaring that he would not go in. “ What’s the matter, Thompson ?” exclaimed the others, “ what’s the matter with you ? why don’t you come ?” “ Because I think it wrong, answered the young man, “ to visit such places ; it is against my princi¬ ples to do it.” “ A fig for your principles exclaimed one. “ Why ( 61 ) 62 THE FEAR OF RIDICULE. I thought better of you. I didn’t suppose, when you first came among us, that you would evince so little real spirit.” “ I did not think you would urge me to visit such a place as this,” answered Thompson. “ What would our employers think of us, were they to see us here now ?” “ Who cares for them ?” said another. “ Let our employers mind their business, and we’ll mind ours. It is none of their concern how or where we spend our evenings.” “ I think it is ; and I am not willing to put my re¬ putation at stake by being seen in such a place.” “ Why, Thompson, I didn’t think you so chicken- hearted,” exclaimed the other. “ Only hear him, boys. He’s afraid to go in and eat a few ovsters with us.” “ Ho ! ho! ho ! a parson verily—in our new clerk,” exclaimed the others,” laughing scornfully. “ Won’t you preach us a sermon, Sir Clergyman? Come I’ll give you a text;” and a dozen similar squibs of ridicule were showered upon him, and Thompson’s resolution began to waver. 11 Come, come, Thompson,” at last said one, who professed to be his friend, . “ don’t be a fool. Here we’ve invited you to sup with us; and now if you refuse, I tell you as a friend that your popularity will be at an end with us; Your credit won’t be worth a rush at the store, I can tell you. Come along with us, man ; you’ll feel better for a frolic now and then.” The united influence of ridicule and persuasion were too much for Thompson’s “principles” — he THE FEAR OF RIDICULE. 63 yielded to the temptation, and entered the saloon with them. They were soon seated around a table loaded with a luxurious repast. But having gained the first point, their next was to entice him to drink. This was not so easy. Thompson had been carefully educated, and he was for a long time proof against their solici¬ tations to partake of the wine-cup ; but ridicule at last prevailed again, and he yielded as he had done before. The party broke up at a late hour, and all of the young men were more or less affected by wine. Poor Thompson went to his room with feelings which it would be difficult to describe. “ I could not bear their ridicule,” he said to himself as he lay his aching head upon his pillow. Having yielded to his companions in two important instances, through fear of ridicule, he found it a hope¬ less task for him to endeavour to contend against their continually renewed solicitations to indulge in dissi¬ pation ; and if his awakened conscience aroused him occasionally to a partial sense of his danger, and he faltered at participating in some scene of dissipation more bold than at first, the lash of ridicule was applied to him without stint, by his companions, and he would offer no resistance. He found it true that the line of prudence once passed, it was hard indeed to turn back ; and he was hurried along at last, step by step, in the full career towards the shipwreck of his fair fame, and his hopes of future peace. Good principles amount to nothing without strength 64 THE FEAR OF RIDICULE. of mind and energy to abide by them. And most surely do the youth find this to be true, who are in cities exposed to numberless temptations, and without the protecting influences of home. Be careful then, young men, and watch yourselves narrowly, that no improper tastes or dispositions take root in your mind, and lure you from the path of dutjf. It is a safe and pleasant path to pursue, and its end is honour and peace —but once deviated from, it will be found no easy road to regain. THE SPOILED CHILD. W hat 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 sin¬ ful, and bring down the heart which once glow T ed witn it, sorrowing to the grave. Let ns sketch the melan¬ choly transaction, as it has occurred in actual life. ( 65 ) 66 THE SPOILED CHILD. One Sabbath afternoon, in the summer of 1825, a mother sat, with her little boy, on the mound of a re¬ cent grave. There was in the air that softened feel¬ ing which frequently succeeds a sultry noon, and seems to accord well with the melancholy of the sor¬ rowing soul; while the ceaseless chirping of thou¬ sands of insects imparted a feeling of freshness and retirement which aided the mind in its work of con¬ templation. But the young mother seemed not to no¬ tice 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 bid¬ den 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 67 THE SPOILED CHILD. 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 tor¬ tuous his temper became irregular, and his will un¬ governable. 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 after¬ wards, the mother smiled to see her son swallow por¬ tions 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 6 63 THE SPOILED CHILD. 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 specta¬ cle almost overcame her: and during the day, and un¬ til late at night, she sat in the room, sobbing and wring¬ ing 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 vis¬ ible on the countenance of each, as they sat at table. For the first time the mother did not smile at those ac¬ tions 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, THE SPOILED CHILD. 69 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 en¬ deavoured to draw him towards the table, where his supper was still waiting. But he threw himselt doggedly upon a chair, and, extending his feet to their full stretch, remained deaf to her questions and en¬ treaties. 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 en¬ tered. 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. Morn¬ ing 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 4 70 THE SPOILED CHILD. 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 mu¬ tual exchange of affection which makes home delight¬ ful. 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 indul¬ gence, 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 w’as doomed to pass. To a woman of high spirit, but who has not been taught to regulate and modify her will and af¬ fections, 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 THE SPOILED CHILD. 71 week, and month after month. Her features natu¬ rally bright with the glow of health, became wan and sickly ; her cheerfulness departed ; and she grew averse to that round of pleasures and social inter¬ course 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 pro¬ gress 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 w r as 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 ap¬ peared 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 72 THE SPOILED CHILD. 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 per¬ ceived 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 mo¬ ment, of his self-possession. The game proceeded as before, and Hamilton con¬ tinued to win. Suddenly, his antagonist threw his dice upon the table, and exclaimed :—“ you are cheat¬ ing, 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 THE SPOILED CHILD. 73 shake. The other men ceased playing ; and Hamil¬ ton’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 stran¬ ger. 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 anta¬ gonist. “ 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 fel¬ low 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. 74 THE SPOILED CHILD. “ 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 cool¬ ness, “ 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. No¬ thing but Hamilton’s self-possession prevented a scuf¬ fle 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 enve¬ loped 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 SPOILED CHILD. 75 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 pe¬ netrating 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 w r as 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 in¬ toxication, his constitution yielded, and he died in the horrors of delirium tremens. Thus w r as his promise redeemed that he would be the support of his mother ! And was that mother still alive? honor after his cD departure she had hoped and prayed for his return. He came not, and the seeds of decay which he had sowm 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 be¬ ing the cause of his crimes. One year after her son’s 76 THE SPOILED CHILD. 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 degrad¬ ing death of a drunkard. Thus the mother had herself prevented the answer to the prayer which she then offered for her son. . - • . ■ * ' HENRIETTA GHAT DOCTOR GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. By J. R. Orton. CHAPTER I. There is something lovely in the name of sister, and its utterance rarely fails to call up the warm af¬ fections of the gentle heart. The thoughts that circle round it are all quiet, beautiful and pure. Passion has no place with its associations. The hopes and fears of love, those strong emotions, powerful enough to shatter and extinguish life itself, find no home there, The bride is the star, the talisman of the heart, the dia¬ mond above all price, bright and blazing in the noon¬ day sun ; a sister, the gem of milder light, calm as the mellow moon, and set in a coronet of pearls. It was late in the Autumn of 18—, when a small party of young gentlefolks were assembled at the man¬ sion of Doctor Gray, in one of the principal streets of the city of Boston. The house was large, and well furnished; and all the arrangements for the little fete, and the fete itself w r ere conducted with that simplicity and propriety, which are ever the evidences of taste and delicacy. At a moderate hour, the happy guests departed, pleased with the hostess, the entertainment, and with themselves. One only lingered behind, a ( 79 ) 80 DU. GUAY AND HIS DAUGIITEU. very youthful gentleman, who stood with his hand upon the drawing-room door, in conversation with Mrs. Gray, and her young, charming daughter. Mrs. Gray remarked that it-was still early, and that Hen¬ rietta and herself would sit up for the Doctor; and his own wishes thus seconded, the young man again resumed his chair. Henrietta Gray, at this period, was thirteen, half-* girl, and half-woman ; an age when the maiden stops in her childish sports, and wonders why they have always interested her so deeply ; and as she muses, sees in the distance, fairy palaces, and green and flow¬ ery banks, and smooth, translucent rivers—the thorns and rough waves of the future all blissfully hidden from her. She was not handsome : her features were not regular, her face was too pale, her form too slight. But then the combined expression of the whole was pleasing. Her eyes were a liquid blue, her counte¬ nance intelligent; and, above all, kindness beamed in every feature ; and when she spoke, her voice was like the soothing ripple of a gentle stream. Arthur Blane, the youth who had secured a few ad¬ ditional minutes for the enjoyment of Henrietta’s soci¬ ety, was about two years her senior ; a fair-haired, rosy lad, of modest manners ; who, as he finally bade her good night, looked into her eyes and trembled ; and his voice sunk to a cadence almost as mellow as her own ; so true it is, that gentleness begets gentleness, and tends to subdue all things to itself. But Arthur Blane’s footsteps had hardly died away on the stairs, when they were heard again in a rapid \ DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 81 ascent; and rushing into the presence of Henrietta and her mother, pale and affrighted, in a few broken words, but tenderly as possible, he informed them that an accident had befallen the Doctor. The brief announcement was hardly ended, when’the ghastly person of Doctor Gray, senseless and bleeding, was borne into the house. The explanation of the casual¬ ty was, that in returning from a professional visit, in a dark and narrow street, his carriage had been over¬ turned by striking against a post. The sudden transformation of Doctor Gray’s elegant and happy mansion to a house of mourning ; the wild grief of Mrs. Gray, the heart-broken sighs of Henri¬ etta ; and the attempts of Arthur Blane, and other friends hastily summoned at midnight, with conster¬ nation pictured in their faces to administer hope and consolation ; the Doctor’s gradual return to conscious¬ ness ; and the doubts and apprehensions of his medical attendants as to the final result; are of a na¬ ture too painful to dwell on. Suffice it, that with the morning the family were permitted to hope; and the Doctor entered on a period of slow and painful con¬ valescence. \ Doctor Gray was, or had been, one of the mos* skilful and popular physicians of the city. He was now fifty years old ; and, unfortunately haying re¬ mained a bachelor until thirty-five, during the period of his single life he had acquired habits of convi¬ viality and late hours, which he had never found the resolution to abandon. He was in the main a kind husband, and an affectionate parent; but as evil ha- 82 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. bits, if not vanquished, in the end are almost certain to vanquish , so the Doctor’s relish for the glee club and the bottle had grown upon him, until it had near¬ ly made its last demand, in a claim for his life. Another evil had still followed in the wake of the t Doctor’s course of life. It lost him the confidence of his friends; and for several years, while the expenses of his family had been increasing, his business had been diminishing. His accident, and the confinement of several months which followed, turned the atten¬ tion of his creditors to the condition of his affairs^ DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 83 and he recovered only to find himself a bankrupt and his wife and children reduced to beggary. At this distressing period in the history ot the Gray family, the Doctor and his three younger children suddenly disappeared ; and no trace of them could be discovered. After a time of wonder, of grief and despair, Mrs. Gray and Henrietta, the sole remaining members of the household, retired to cheap and narrow quarters in the suburbs of the town, where the mother, overcome hy the successive shocks of her severe destiny, sunk into a condition of imbecility. Not so with Henrietta. Though a shadow rested on her pale face, and the sorrows of her young life had sunk deeply into her heart, a kind Providence had not suffered her to be broken by their unusual weight. She w T as still gentle as ever, but misfortune is rapid in the development of character; and to gentleness were now T added an unlooked-for fortitude and energy. Her mother, entirely incapable of effort, and herself, were to be fed. She laid her case at the foot of Omnipotence, and received strength. Friends, it is true, w T ere kind; and some relations there were, who did not utterly forget the bereaved ones in their affliction ; but, in the main, the wants of both mother and daughter were now to be supplied, and, for a pe¬ riod df weary months and years, were supplied by the labours of Henrietta. When not occupied with the care of her sick parent, her needle w~as in active requisition ; and early and late she toiled, and toiled cheerfully, for bread; and thanked God that it was daily given her 7 84 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. Among her kind friends, none were more constant or thoughtful than Mr. and Mrs. Blane. Neither did Arthur forget her; and to the great scandal of the prying ones, he divided the leisure of his col¬ lege vacation pretty equally between his father’s and the homely tenement of the Grays; and as he was an only son, of large expectations, to the further scandal of the gossips, his parents seemed to view his conduct with a total unconcern. Indeed, in these visits, his mother was almost his constant com¬ panion. When not diversified with the society of these friends, life, with Henrietta, presented little else than one unvarying toilsome round. Her household duties, her struggle for sustenance, and her care of her half idiotic and often captious parent, occupied her hands, her thoughts, and her heart; and yet she had room for other sorrows; and withal, was not unhappy. The inscrutable and mysterious fate of her father and her little brothers, was of itself a burden hard'to be borne: and yet, with all these causes of depression bearing upon her, the consciousness of a daily effort to perform her duty, and above all, an humble and sin¬ cere reliance on the goodness and care of Heaven, lightened her heart and her footsteps, and clothed her brow with serenity. While the ills of life are scat¬ tered with great apparent irregularity, its happiness is dispensed with far more equal balance than is gene¬ rally imagined. Nearly four years thus wore away, when the thread of life, which for some months had been growing weaker and weaker with Mrs. Gray, parted; and DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 85 Henrietta, of all her family was left. The Blanes were with her in her affliction ; and crowned their generous kindness by offering her a home. The sym¬ pathies of her own relatives, too, were so far awa¬ kened by this last event, and the desolate condition of the stricken orphan, that her aunt Totten made her a like offer, which, for obvious reasons, Henrietta pre¬ ferred to accept. Her rooms were accordingly given up, the humble furniture disposed of, and she became domesticated at her aunt’s. About a month after this event, Mrs. Totten’s ser¬ vant, one morning, left a couple of letters at Mr. Blane’s. One was addressed to Mrs. Blane, and the other to Arthur; and they proved to be from Henri¬ etta. The one to Arthur was unsealed, and as fol¬ lows : “ Dear Arthur, —At a moment like this, when I am about to be separated from you for a time, and possi¬ bly for ever, no feeling of delicacy must prevent my treating you with the frankness due to your noble and generous nature. That I love you, you will not doubt; and I am ready, so far as my heart is con¬ cerned, to become your wife. But I have first another and imperative duty to discharge. My inquiries after my lost father and brothers, have at length, as I have reason to believe, been crowned with success. I must go to them. Do not seek to follow me, or to trace me out; and if Heaven preserve me, the devotion of my life shall repay you. But if this be too hard, dear Arthur, take back your plighted troth, and be only my brother again.” 86 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. When these letters arrived, Arthur Blane was ab¬ sent from the city ; and on his return, he hastened to Mrs. Totten’s. From that discreet lady he obtained little additional intelligence. Henrietta was gone; but where, if she was in possession of the secret, Mrs. Totten was too guarded to disclose. His inquiries at the several stage offices and elsewhere, with a view to ascertain the direction she had taken, were equally unsuccessful; and as this hope faded, gradually Arthur Blane’s handsome and happy face assumed a length¬ ened and woe-begone expression. As months rolled away, he sunk into a nervous listlessness, which as¬ sumed, in the lapse of years during which he heard nothing from his betrothed, more and more the character of moroseness. His only relief was in tra¬ vel ; and what excited a much greater amount of remark was the circumstance that his parents, in their old age, were also seized with a mania to see the world. During these peregrinations, the three, often in company, visited most of the towns in New Eng¬ land, explored a large part of New York, and pene¬ trated, at several points, the interminable West beyond. DE. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 87 CHAPTER II. The scene of our little history now changes to the small village of K-, in the interior of the State of New York : the period, about two years after the sudden disappearance of Dr. Gray and his children from Boston. The village was of no great preten¬ sion. It lay in a wide valley encompassed by massive, but not abrupt hills; and to the south and east flowed small meandering rivers. It was of sufflcient age to be free from stumps, and the immediate enroachments of the forests; possessed an air of thrift and comfort, several respectable tenements, and a goodly number of neat white cottages, surrounded with ample grounds and embosomed in shrubbery. But it was laid out absolutely without plan. Its principal street was thrice the width usually granted to avenues of the kind; and from its northern extremity, in wild irre¬ gularity, diverged other streets towards every conceiv¬ able point of the compass. Its principal ornaments, in the way of buildings, were its churches and halls of learning. Two respectable structures, one of stone and the other of brick, were devoted to the purposes of an academy; while several massive collegiate edi¬ fices crowned a hill at the south. The “ Brick acad¬ emy,” the germ of two noble institutions of learning, in the poverty of a new settlement, had been built and sustained as a classic school through its infancy, / 88 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. by a voluntary mortgage on the property of the prin¬ cipal inhabitants of the place. These, it is hardly necessary to add, were staid New-Englanders. It was spring-time, and the buds and foliage of vil¬ lage and country were just bursting into a rejoicing green,—when, one morning, the inhabitants of K- became aw r are of an accession to their numbers. A little dilapidated hovel, standing on a common, and for a long period untenanted, had during the night been accommodated with occupants. A poor broken- down horse, hitched to a broken weather-beaten cart, stood by the shattered door-way; and an elderly, square-built man, was endeavouring, with refuse boards and paper, to patch up the open windows. In the appearance of this individual there was something peculiar. He wore a faded lion-skin coat, of large dimensions, and enormous pockets; and an old slouch¬ ed hat to match. He was of middle height, but thick¬ set and muscular; with a most massive chest and head. His face was pale and wrinkled, surmounted with a heavy Roman nose, and shaded by an abun¬ dance of short grizzly hair. His eyebrows were heavy and projecting, and beneath them were a pair of cold, keen, gray eyes. His head he carried a little on one side, as though his neck was stiff; and all his movements were made with great deliberation, and an obtrusive self-possession. His companions—for he was not alone—were three lads of, perhaps, twelve, ten, and eight years of age, ragged and filthy, with¬ out shoes or hats; their long, tangled locks sticking out in every direction, and bleached almost white by DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 89 exposure to the weather; and with scarcely clothes enough, such as they were, to cover their nakedness. The eldest was robust in appearance ; the next in size less so; while the youngest was painfully frail. It is, perhaps needless to say, that these indivi¬ duals were Doctor Gray and his children. He had consented to the loss of his standing in life, and to the disruption and degradation of his family, as he flattered himself, from a feeling of excusable pride; an inability to brave the reverses of fortune amid the scenes of his prosperity, and to bear up under the sneers of rivals and the pity of sunshine friends. But had he probed his heart deeper, he would have discovered there a consciousness, that in order to regain his lost ground and retrieve his fortunes, i* was necessary for him to relinquish the bottle; and that for a sacrifice so great as this, he was not quite ready —not yet. It is unnecessary to trace him through the two years of intervening time. Suffice it, that he had changed his place of abode more than • once, each time sinking lower in the scale of respect¬ ability ; until the little remnant of availables he had managed to smuggle from the city having become exhausted, he and his children were reduced to the condition in which they have been described. The inhabitants of K-looked on him with some wonder and curiosity, but nobody molested him : and soon he came to be known, on what authority no one exactly knew, as Doctor Glegg. Ere long, the hut he occupied became a charmed precinct to all the child¬ ren; for the door was kept carefully closed against 90 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. intruders; and as to windows, there was not a pane of glass in any one of them; or other contrivance for the admission of light, save a few straggling patches of oiled paper. Stolen glimpses, it is true, had been caught by the more curious of the urchins, through the door-way, of a box, or large chest, and, it was cautiously whispered around, and, at length among the grown-up and gray-headed children of the place, that Doctor Glegg was a miser; and that the chest in question contained his gold. But the Doctor was poor enough; so poor, that his miserable and cheerless tenement was rarely out of the reach of absolute want. Indeed, it is surprising how he and his wretched children managed to live at all. Unfitted by the habits of his life for manual labour; and maintaining, even in his most abject de¬ gradation, a sort of personal respect, which forbade a resort to menial offices, his sphere of exertion was limited. Instead, therefore, of resorting to days' works, he planted patches of corn and potatoes, on shares; and secured a little hay in the same manner, for the benefit of his famished horse; and in place of the carriage to which he had been accustomed, he rode to and from his fields in his cart; while his elfin boys scoured the commons for refuse wood, and, bare¬ headed and bare legged, waded and fished in the streams. As time passed on, Doctor Glegg became more and more an object of curiosity. It was evident to all, that he was intemperate; but he was never seen drunk, and was never vulgar or profane. It was / DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 91 perceived that he was a man of learning and of parts; and that his conversation was a singular mixture of wit and wisdom, of bombast and simplicity, according to the circumstances under which he was accosted. With men of sense he talked sense; with scholars, he was scholastic; with- fools, bombastic; and -to those who pressed him with an impertinent curiosity, he was utterly unintelligible. To the last class his re¬ plies were somewhat after this sort: “ Mon Dieu ! man is a curious biped, made up of the most heterogeneous, and incomprehensible parts. Procul! procul! scat! Neither him nor his conco¬ mitants have I any desire to know; but consign them all, in one conglomerated mass, to the crocus acclicatus of the common cantP Others, however, who fell into casual conversation with him, and did not attempt to pry into his circum¬ stances, or the events of his life found his mind well stored with a variety of information, which he was capable of imparting in forcible and appropriate lan¬ guage. A student of the Academy having politely accosted him, Dr. Gray said, “ You are in pursuit of knowledge, my young sir: and among all the attainments after which the scholar should strive, nothing is more important than a just appreciation of his mother tongue. Allow me to in¬ quire of you, what is the chief element of good com¬ position?” “Simplicity,” replied the student. “The question is well answered,” continued the doctor; “De Witt Clinton himself could not have re* / 92 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. plied more justly. To know what we wish to com¬ municate, and then to make the communication in just those exact words necessary to convey the whole idea, constitute the chief excellence of style.” A rough person, having taken it upon himself to abuse Dr. Gray, and to heap on him a volume of oaths and profane epithets, the old man listened for some time in silence. At length he quietly remarked : “ Sir, you cannot swear.” “ Swear, old curmudgeon !—what do you mean ?” “ It requires sense, sir,” continued the doctor, “ to swear. You may use the words, but you cannot swear.” Thus lived, or rather existed, Dr. Gray and his children in the village of K-, for a period of two years; when an event occurred which wrought & gra¬ dual change in their condition. There arrived in the stage from the East, a pale and delicate, but sweet¬ eyed young woman, dressed in deep black; who, hav¬ ing attended to the safe disposition of her baggage at the hotel, inquired for the residence of the Rev. Mr. Trimble, It was shown to her, and she at once bent her steps in that direction. The stranger lady approached the dwelling of the clergyman, not without trepidation. Brushing an unbidden tear from her eye, she raised the knocker with a shaking hand, but her heart and her determi¬ nation were constant, for it \vas none other than Hen¬ rietta Gray. She found Mr. Trimble at home; and more than that, a kind and feeling man. She told to him her little story, and exhibited to him her DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 93 certificate of membership in one of the churches of Boston, as a voucher for her honesty, if, indeed, any thing else were wanting than her sweet countenance and modest deportment. The good man entered heartily into the object of her mission; informed her that Dr. Glegg and the three children were still in K-; and from his ac¬ count of them, she became more fully confirmed in the supposition that they were no other than her lost father and brothers. To change probability into a certainty, however, with a small daughter of Mr. Trimble as her cicerone, she strolled into the quarter of the village where stood Dr. Glegg’s hut,—and saw and recognized her parent. She also passed quite near one or two of the boys; but in their changed condition, she failed to discover any thing which bore resemblance to the well-fed, well-clothed, and happy children she had known. In great agitation of feel¬ ing, she returned to Mr. Trimble’s house; and ac¬ cepted a cordial invitation from him and his kind lady, to pass the night with them. / 94 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. CHAPTER III. On the following morning Henrietta found herself refreshed from the fatigues of her journey, and in a condition of mind and body to proceed in the accom¬ plishment of her purposes. Her new friend, Mr. Trimble, introduced her at once into a highly respec¬ table family, wdiere she took a room and board; and himself arranged an interview between her and her brothers. Her baggage was hardly transported from the hotel to her new quarters, before they arrived: and ragged and filthy as they were, were clasped over and over again to her heart, and bathed in her tears. She found them as wild as the untamed colts of the desert. Dick, the eldest, after some little conversa¬ tion, remembered her; and she perceived, on study¬ ing his countenance, that some of his former features remained. But with the others, William and Henry, there was no recognition on either side; and the two little fellows endured her caresses in sullen silence, as though in doubt of the whole proceeding. An hour was devoted to the joy and sorrow of the meeting ; and then Henrietta assisted her brothers to cleanse themselves, bathing them thorougly from head to foot, and cutting and smoothing their matted hair. This done, she put on her bonnet, and taking them by the hand, walked out into the business street of DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 95 the village. From her slender means she furnished them with hats and shoes, and purchased cloth for garments, all of a cheap but substantial quality, ap¬ propriate to their condition : and telling them to come again on the morrow, with good advice and soothing words of encouragement and tenderness, she sent them home, i For a large part of the succeeding night, Henri¬ etta, happy, and even joyous, plied her busy needle; and on the following day, several of the garments came from her hand, finished; but the children did not appear. Restless in consequence as the night approached, she walked into the street, and naturally turned her footsteps towards the quarter where they resided. From the first she would gladly have seen her father, and have included him directly in her mission of love and mercy. But this she feared to do. He had never been familiar with his children; she well understood the pride and selfish stubbornness of his character; and in studying her plans, she had de¬ termined it safest for their success, not to intrude upon him, but to leave him to make the first advances, or to chance, to bring them together. She suspected that he had forbidden the children to see her, but for this she was prepared. Passing the hut, she dis¬ covered Dick in the road beyond, and accosting him, learned that her suspicions were correct. Her father on hearing of her presence in K-, and interview with her brothers, had manifested considerable un¬ easiness, and peremptorily forbidden them to see her again. Placing the garments she had brought in her * 96 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. brothers’ hands, she expressed an ardent hope that her father would recall the prohibition, and even that he would soon allow her to see him; and retired. But the next day brought no change; and on the following morning, having completed the rest of the garments, she again walked towards the hut. This time she found her father in the road, harnessing his poor old horse, and was obliged either to turn back, or to pass him. She chose the latter alternative; and as she came near, he turned suspiciously upon her, regarded her coldly and sternly, but without speaking Greatly agitated, Henrietta extended her arms towards him, and uttered the word “ father.” Dr. Gray turned away, and walked to his door. “ My dear father !” said she, in the most beseech¬ ing tones, “ will you not own me?” Dr. Gray leaned against the gate, with his back towards her, apparently as much affected as herself. He shook as though with an ague fit, and with a strong effort at last managed to say, in a broken, hol¬ low voice: “ Go away! I know you not, and will not know you!” Poor Henrietta hung her gifts for her outcast brothers upon the broken fence near her wretched father, and departed with a sad heart. But her con¬ stancy was rewarded. That afternoon her little brothers were permitted to visit her again ; and from that time forward their intercourse was uninterrupted. Soon she had all her plans for their benefit in success¬ ful operation. Her industry and skill with her needle, DR. GRAY AND IIIS DAUGHTER. 97 aided, perhaps, by sympathy, and the little air of ro¬ mance which surrounded her, gave her an abundance of employment; her three brothers spent much of each day with.her: and as she worked, she heard their lessons, conversed with them, and gave them instruction, so far as she was able, in every depart¬ ment of knowledge which she deemed necessary to their success in life. Her little workshop became a school of the most practical and valuable kind. Neither did Henrietta forget her father, or cease her efforts to ameliorate his condition. Though she held no direct intercourse with him, through her prudently-exerted influence he was induced to remove to more comfortable quarters, where she managed to surround him with most of the necessaries, and eventually, to supply him with many of the little comforts of life, to which, latterly, he had been a stranger. She even visited his rooms in his absence, attended to their cleanliness, and conferred upon them those little graces and finishing touches which woman alone can bestow. She also attended to his wardrobe, kept it in repair, and added to it, from time to time, as her own means permitted, and his wants required. He, meanwhile, though he still refused to see her, regarded her, not in his superficial mind so clearly, but in his innermost soul, as a ministering angel,—and blessed her. Thus nearly three years passed away. During this time Henrietta had several times heard from her aunt Totten, and through her of the uneasiness of her good friends, the Blanes. This she deeply regretted, 98 D R. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER and would gladly have relieved, had her own strong sense of propriety and duty permitted. But to have informed them of her plans would have been to defeat them. It is not to be supposed that Arthur Blane would have consented to remain in quiet expec¬ tancy of a wife while she should devote two or three years of her life to the care of her dissolute and thank¬ less father, and to the uncertain task of rescuing and reclaiming her vagabond brothers. Yet to the mind of Henrietta, when she had once succeeded in dis¬ covering where they were, this was her first duty ; in comparison with which, all else, her own hopes and prospects in life, and even the temporary happi¬ ness of him she loved most faithfully and deeply sunk into insignificance. In the rescuing and training of those helpless children, there was a great work to be done; and to her it was clear, that it belonged to her¬ self, their sister, and the eldest, to do it; and further, that if she shrunk from the undertaking, it never would be accomplished. So strong in the conscious¬ ness of the rectitude of her heart and her actions, she looked back without regret, if not always without sor¬ row, as she thought of her almost dissipated dream of life and love with Arthur Blane; and forward with that cheering hope which the just and trustful have in heaven. At this period Dr. Gray was prostrated by a sudden stroke of paralysis, and Henrietta hesitated no longer. She hastened to his bedside, and gave him the watch¬ ful care and tender solicitude of a daughter. He never recovered sufficiently to speak ; but he knew her, and DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 99 * THE DEATH OF DR. GRAY. his proud and stubborn heart was at last softened. He expressed his gratitude by mute signs; and pressing her hand in his, expired. This event released Henrietta from a necessary con¬ finement to the village of K-. Her brothers were now greatly improved; and, under her skilful train¬ ing, had made respectable advances in manners, morals, and education. They had proved apt pupils, with kind and affectionate natures; and their sister’s unwonted love and purity had assimilated them much and readilv to herself. But in case of her own re- turn, she did not propose to take them to the city. A country life she considered most conducive to their 8 100 DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. happiness, virtue, and manhood : and accordingly set about providing them with suitable homes. Dick chose to be a farmer; and William and Henry, now grown into robust lads, selected mechanical occupa¬ tions. Aided by the kindness and interest of the most respectable citizens of K-, good places were soon found, and the boys were properly bestowed. The death of her father was announced by Hen¬ rietta to her aunt Totten very soon after its occur¬ rence ; and that hitherto discreet lady at once “ took the responsibility” of consulting the Blanes as to the future movements of her niece. The consequence of this unauthorized proceeding was the arrival in the village of K-, in a very few days, of a barouche, containing the whole Blane family. Arthur’s hand¬ some face, so his mother declared, within a week, had shed a most solemn bevy of incipient wrinkles, and shortened half an inch; and the crimson which man¬ tled on the cheek of Henrietta, as they met, did not, by any means, detract from the graces of her meek, but now blooming and mature beauty. A day or two later, through the agency of the Blanes, who all at once became active in the affairs of the little village of K-, a council was held at the Bev. Mr. Trimble’s at which it was decided, that, under the peculiar circumstances of the present case, it was meet and proper that Henrietta Gray should return to Boston in no other capacity than as Mrs. Arthur Blane. On the morning of their depar¬ ture, accordingly, the marriage ceremony was sol¬ emnized. DR. GRAY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 101 The principal personages in this little history, we believe, are still living. Henrietta is a happy wife, surrounded with an interesting family; and her three brothers, who have learned so well to know the depth and purity of a sister’s love, are respectable and thriving citizens of one of the western States. BROTHER AND SISTER. ♦ By T. S. Arthur. “ Alfred,” said a mother, in whose life-glass the sands were ehbing low, “ Alfred, my dear hoy! I shall be with yon only a little while longer. To your care J commit this dear child, your sister, now sleep¬ ing before you so sweetly. Alone you will be in the world. Love her, Alfred, and care for her. Be to her father, mother, and brother, all in one.” The mother’s voice here choked with rising sobs, and she sunk back, exhausted, upon the pillow from which she had arisen. The boy, scarcely compre¬ hending the nature of the evil about to befall him, or the importance of the solemn charge he was receiv¬ ing, wept in sympathy, and mingled his tears with those of his fast failing parent. A few weeks afterwards, Alfred Lovell, an orphan, stood beside his little sister Mary at the graves of both their parents. Long rank grass covered that of their father; but the earth was heaped up, yellow and verdureless, above the spot where the mother’s faded remains had been consigned to their eternal rest. But ten years old, Alfred scarcely compre ( 102 ) BROTHER AND S IS TER. 103 hended the extent of his loss, and little Mary, who had seen only half as many summers, smiled from her own pleasant thoughts, while the mourners stood with bowed heads, and the preacher’s voice was raised in solemn prayer. Back from the old burial-place, where, beneath the shadow of two elms that had braved the storms of a century, were made the graves of their parents, the children returned to the home in which they had lived since the light of existence dawned upon them. But this was no longer to be their home. Relatives, into whose keeping the children now fell, decided upon their separation. Mary was taken by an aunt, a Mrs. Edwards, to raise as her own child, and Alfred was sent away some two hundred miles to a boarding school, there to remain until his education was com¬ pleted. A small property had been left, and this was invested for their benefit. Not until the lapse of four years did the brother and sister meet again. Mary, now in her tenth year, was playing with her doll, one morning in August, when a tall lad entered the room where she sat, and stood looking at her for some moments. “ Mary!” he at length said, in a voice that slightly trembled. The child started and looked up into his face eagerly. “ Mary, don’t you know your brother Alfred?” said he, with something of disappointment in his tone. Quick as thought the child sprung from her chair, and, throwing her arms around the lad, hid her face on his bosom and cried for joy. 104 BROTHER AND SISTER. A happy meeting was it for the brother and sister after this long separation. Alfred had been permitted to visit his aunt, and spend with Mary his August vacation. For reasons, satisfactory at least to those who had the guardianship of the children, they had not been permitted to see each other since the death of their mother, until this time. Nor would the meet¬ ing now have been allowed but for the interference of a relative, who spoke so strongly against the par¬ ticular reasons which influenced the aunt, who had adopted Mary, in her views of separation, that the latter waived the objections which, heretofore, kept the brother and sister in the relation of strangers to each other. A happy meeting, as we have said, was this for the brother and sister. Scarcely a moment were they apart during the three or four weeks that Alfred re¬ mained with Mrs. Edwards their aunt, weeks that flew by as if they had been only days. At the time of their separation, Mary was too young to comprehend the nature of the loss she had sustained—a loss scarcely felt in consequence of the tender care with which she was received into the family of Mrs. Edwards, who, having no children of her own, permitted her affections to flow forth and centre upon the child of her adoption. She did not, therefore, bear in her mind a very strong remem¬ brance of her mother. It was far different in the case of Alfred. With the death of his last surviv¬ ing parent came a sad change for him. At once he was removed from all the pleasant associations of I BROTHER AND SISTER. 105 early life, and his lot cast among- unsympathizing strangers. A child of but ten years, how painful were his first experiences ! How yearningly, in the sad homesickness that followed, did his heart go back to the old place! How vividly arose in his mind images of former times, in which his mother’s pre¬ sence made the joy and the sunshine! Then the music of her voice was in his ears, and he could feel the gentle pressure of her hand upon his head. Sad indeed were his first year’s experiences. After this the native lightness of his spirits reacted. He be¬ came a boy among boys, full of life and activity ; and, what w T as worse, imbibed, too readily, the vices of those -with whom he was thrown into association. On being permitted to visit his aunt, who lived near by the old homestead, every object that he saw brought back the past and filled his mind with old associa¬ tions. Daily, with Mary by his side, he rambled about among the scenes so well remembered, connect¬ ing with each familiar thing that met his sight, some incident that was half forgotten. One day, soon after his return, he had wandered some distance from the residence of his aunt, with Mary, his almost constant companion by his side, when he found himself near the graveyard where rested all that was mortal of his parents. “ Our father and mother were buried here, Mary,” said he, as he leaned upon the fence that inclosed the spot sacred to the ashes of the dead ; “ let us go in and look at their graves.” A feeling of sadness had come over the boy. Most 106 BROTHER AND SISTER. vividly did he remember the time when he saw the coffin of his mother lowered into the earth, and heard the hollow rattling of the clods upon the narrow house in which she was sleeping. Climbing the fence, Alfred assisted Mary over, and in a few mi¬ nutes they were standing beside the. grass-covered hillocks that marked the resting-place of their pa¬ rents. It was the first time Mary had been there »y since her mother’s burial; and that scene had so faded from her memory, that scarcely a vestige re¬ mained. But tears were in Alfred’s eyes, and slowly falling over his face; she wept with him, and felt sad at heart. Word for word of the solemn charge the boy’s mo¬ ther had given him on her dying bed concerning his sister, came up in his memory; and, as he drew' his arm around Mary, and bent down and kissed her, he resolved never to forget this last sacred injunction. Vivid w 7 as the impression that all this made upon the heart of Mary; young as she w 7 as, it fixed itself so deeply, that she never afterward could forget it. When the vacation closed, Alfred went back to school, and five years elapsed before he was again . permitted to see his sister. He w r as then a tall, hand¬ some young man, and she a beautiful girl in her fif¬ teenth year. They met with the warmest demonstra¬ tions of affection, and spent two or three w r e£ks to¬ gether. Then they separated again—Alfred to enter a mercantile house in New York, and Mary to re¬ main with her aunt, wlio lived about twenty miles from Philadelphia. i aiARV A3JI) ALFRED AT THE GttAYES OF TUEIR PAUEXTS (107) * . * *. ; - * * ♦ • - s . if i i / . ■ I ' » < BROTHER AND SISTER. 109 In passing through college, Alfred Lovell had ac¬ quired habits of a dangerous kind. With three or four young men from the South, who were always well supplied with money, he had formed an intimate acquaintance, and following their example, indulged himself in every sensual gratification within his reach. On leaving college, the President of the in¬ stitution, who had observed with pain the evil habits acquired by the young man, earnestly warned him of the danger that was in his path. But the warning had little effect. With no one to counsel, and no home circle into which affection could draw him, the position of Alfred Lovell was even worse in New York than while he was at college. At the end of two years, when he attained his majority and came into the possession of about ten thousand dollars, he needed a guardian more than at almost any former period of his life. Among the vices into which he had fallen, that pa¬ rent of all other vices, the habit of drinking intoxicat¬ ing liquors, was included. This placed him in the highway to ruin. “Alfred,” said the merchant in whose .counting- room the young man had been for two years, “ I wish to speak a word with you in private.” Alfred Lovell, anticipating some proposition look¬ ing to his future worldly advantage, accompanied the staid, thrifty merchant, into his private room. “ Alfred,” said this individual after they were seated, “you are now of age.” » 110 BROTHER AND SISTER. The young man bowed. “ For two years,” continued the merchant, “you have been in my service, and I have found you intel¬ ligent in business matters, and, in the main, true to my interests. During the whole of this time, I have observed you closely, with a purpose in my mind. That purpose was to see how far it would be desira¬ ble to connect you and my son in business in a branch of our business in Cincinnati.” Albert felt an instant elevation of spirits, and saw himself, thus connected, in the highway to fortune. “ But”—how that little word dashed his feelings— “I am sorry to say, that your habits are of so loose and dangerous a character, that I do not think it safe to make the association contemplated. I would not have pained you by this announcement but in the hope that the pain would be salutarjy and lead to an entire reform in your habits. You now see how a young man, who indulges in drinking and other vices, mars his prospects for life. Capital is always ready to seek out the right kind of ability; but it as care¬ fully regards sobriety and moral character, as it does ability; for there is no safety in the latter unless guaranteed by the former.” It so happened that, in the elation of feeling conse¬ quent upon the arrival of his twenty-first birth-day, Alfred had, during the morning, indulged freely in drinking champaign with some friends. In conse¬ quence, his mind was neither very clear nor well ba¬ lanced. But for this, he would not have replied as he did. BROTHER AND SISTER. Ill “ Was I brought in here merely to suffer insult?” he exclaimed, when the merchant ceased speaking. “ Nowas calmly replied. “ My purpose was to startle you into a vivid consciousness of your dan¬ ger, in the hope of saving you from the ruin that must come if you go forward in the path you have entered.” < • “ I thank no one for such interference in my affairs!” retorted the blind and heated young man. “Very well, sir! very well!” answered the mer¬ chant; the anger he felt at this reaction beginning to manifest itself. “ I shall interfere no more. Go your own way; and, when it ends in destruction, remem¬ ber that you were forwarned. I had intended offer¬ ing you an increase of salary; but now I would pre¬ fer retaining you in my service no longer. When a young man gives me any impertinence, I dismiss him. You are at liberty to get yourself another place.” Alfred attempted to reply; but the merchant waved him from the room with an imperative motion of the hand, at the same time turning from him to the desk at which he had seated himself. The young man then retired, but with more sober feelings than when he came in. Soon after, he left the store. How suddenly had the bright morning that opened on his majority become clouded ! And from his own evil habits went up the vapours that obscured the sun. Stung to the quick at having been dismissed from the service of the merchant, young Lovell shrunk 112 BROTHER AND SISTER. from applying to any other house in the city for a situation as clerk. , , -V ; , •>. \ 1 '. t * ' * ' - . . . • \ » X . , • • * ' - % f /I . ■ “ I’ll go into business,” said he to himself, as he Sr. ...... . ■ sat reflecting on the position in which he found him¬ self placed. “ I have capital, and I have, also, the requisite mercantile knowledge.” From that moment his thoughts ran in a new channel. After the required preliminaries, Alfred* came fully into possession of the little property left to him at the death of his mother ; and, on this basis, before he attained his twenty-second year, com¬ menced business for himself. The early and long-continued separation between V. •’ the brother and sister had wrought so entire an es¬ trangement, that they rarely thought of each other. Twice, since he left college, had Alfred visited Mary; but she appeared shy of him, and he did not feel very strongly attracted towards her. As the sister’s mind developed towards woman¬ hood, however, ^he began to think oftener, and with an awakening interest of her brother. This inte¬ rest was quickened into life when she attained her eighteenth year; and, from that time, her heart turned towards him with an affectionate concern that gained strength daily. The cause of this change, we will relate; 1 • * . There had been found among the papers of Mrs. Lovell, after her death, a sealed letter addressed to her daughter, to be placed in her hands when she attained her eighteenth year. The request of the BROTHER AND SISTER. 118 deceased mother was complied with at the proper time. Her letter was as follows:— “ My dear Daughter,— As I write this, yon are playing about my room, a happy child, and all uncon¬ scious of the great loss you will soon have to bear in the death of your mother. Not long have I now to remain upon the earth. The sands in my glass have run low; the life-blood in my heart is ebbing; a few more fluttering pulses, and my spirit will take its flight from earth.—Ah, my child! not until you are yourself a mother, can you understand how I am dis¬ tressed at the thought of leaving you alone in this selfish and cruel world! But I will not linger on this theme. “ Mary, when this letter is placed in your hands, you will be a woman—w*ith the heart, I trust, as well as the developed mind of a woman. Your aunt Helen has promised to take you, and raise you as her own child. You, therefore, will scarcely feel, I hope, your loss. But it will be different with your brother Alfred. A somewhat wayw r ard boy, he has never made many friends, and none will be so patient and forbearing to¬ wards him as I have been. Most probably he wflll be sent to some boarding-school, kept there until old enough to commence the study of a profession. There will be no mother’s care for him—no sister’s loving and gentle ministrations. And thus he will grow up and become a man. Ah ! how T my heart trembles as I think of the dangers that will surround him as he enters the world, free from the restraints of guardian- 114 BROTHER AND SISTER. ship, and unprotected by the sphere of home. It is for him, Mary—your brother—that I now address you; and my purpose is to awaken in your mind for him something of the anxious interest that I feel. Where is he now, Mary? (I speak as though years have elapsed.) What is he? Do you know? When did you see him last? I put these questions with trembling anxiety. Has he wandered from the right path in search of forbidden pleasures? and is he tast¬ ing already the bitter fruit that hangs from every tree that grows along the way of transgression ? If so, yours is the holy mission to bring him back. From the world of spirits let my voice come to your ears with this injunction. “ If the fears I now express be groundless—if my dear boy have passed thus far through the fiery ordeal untouched by the flame, draw close to his side. In a sister’s pure, unselfish, devoted love lies a brother’s safety. “ May the God of all mercies bless you and keep you free from evil, my child.—This is the tearful prayer of— Your Mother. For a while after reading this letter, Mary’s feel¬ ings were overwhelmed. It was more than a year since she had seen Alfred, or even heard from him. But few letters had ever passed between them. For some months previous to the time when her mother’s letter was placed in her hands, Mary had thought a good deal about Alfred, and a purpose to write to him came more than once into her mind. Now she no longer hesitated. f BROTHER AND SISTER. 115 Two years have passed since Alfred Lovell became a man, bis prospects for life marred in consequence of bis early indulgence in the vice of drinking. As we have seen, be determined to invest bis ten thou¬ sand dollars in business, and begin the world for him¬ self; and this determination was acted upon. Had he * reformed his habits, abandoned his pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking associates, and put himself earnestly down to business, success, under the circumstances, would still have been doubtful; but as he gave him¬ self a greater license than before, his ruin was inevi- table. Two years were sufficient to involve him be¬ yond the hope of extrication. As difficulties closed around him, Alfred Lovell, in whom the appetite for drink had been steadily increasing, indulged himself more and more freely. Nightly he drowned the anxiety and care of the day in the cup whose dregs are bitterness itself. One morning, when his affairs were at their worst, after taking his usual strong glass of brandy, to steady his nerves, and drive away, as he sometimes said, the “ blue devils,” he went to his store, to com¬ mence the business of the day. It was to be a hard day; for several thousand dollars in notes fell due, and there was no balance to his credit in bank. Where the means to lift these notes were to come from, was more than Lovell could tell. He had bor¬ rowed, in all quarters, from business friends, so heavily, that little more could be expected from this source. There had come, in fact, a crisis in his affairs; and, unless relief presented itself in some 9 116 BROTHER AND SISTER. unexpected quarter, his failure that day was inevi¬ table. Lovell had been in his place of business about half an hour, when a clerk came in from the postoffice, and handed him a couple of letters. One of these contained a draft for a few hundred dollars from a customer; the other was from his sister Mary. He started, as his eyes rested upon the signature of the last letter. Its contents affected him visibly. They were™ ‘‘My dear Brother: —It is long since I have either seen you or heard from you. Born of the same mother, whose love even the grave has not ex¬ tinguished, is it right for us to be to each other so like strangers? Of late, I have thought of you much; and now, my thoughts and feelings are all suddenly awakened to a new and earnest interest in your welfare. Do you ever think of me, Alfred ? Do you remember the time when we stood by the grave of our parents—you a boy of fourteen, and I a mere child ? How often, of late, has that scene come up from my memory! I had scarcely felt our be¬ reavement ; but the tears that were then upon your face attested the keenness of your suffering. The loss to you was a sadder one than to me, Alfred—far sadder. I scarcely felt the change; but you lost every thing when we lost our mother.” So vividly did this recall to Alfred Lovell the past, that his eyes became blinded with tears, and he had to wipe them away before he could finish the letter BROTHER AND SISTER. 117 Folding the paper, after reading the last line, he bent his eyes upon the floor, and sat musing for some time. A man, when surrounded with diffi¬ culties, and ready to be overcome by them, is veiy apt, in looking at any thing presented to him, to inquire how far it is likely to afford relief in his pressing emergency. In thinking of his sister, Lovell’s mind instantly reverted to the ten thousand dollars she was to receive as her portion on reach ing the age of eighteen years. Then followed the desire to have, at least, the use of it, for a time, in business. “ Ten thousand dollars would carry me through all my difficulties,” said he. “I would pay her a higher interest for its use than she could obtain any where else.” He checked himself, for there came into his mind the thought, that he was meeting his sister’s affection¬ ate advances in a spirit of selfish calculation. In a little while, however, his mind took up the train of reflections which had been broken. The pressure upon him was great, and he could not turn himself away from the suddenly presented hope of relief. “ But all this will not pay my notes,” said he, arous¬ ing himself from a train of reflections in which he was framing in his mind a suitable answer to return to Mary—one that would tend to serve the selfish pur¬ pose which had arisen in his mind spontaneously. “ I must get money some where. With this hope of aid in the future, it will not do to give up now.” For three hours, Lovell tried faithfully to borrow a 118 BROTHER AND SISTER. sum sufficient to meet his payments for that day; but he tried in. vain. Two thousand dollars were yet to make up when he returned to his store at one o’clock, after having exhausted every means of raising money. A mode of raising the sum required to meet his pay¬ ments for the day had been suggested to his mind, and it was to think over the matter that he now re¬ turned. When the suggestion first came, it w r as in¬ stantly rejected. It was presented again, and this time he looked at it for a moment. Finally, as every expedient failed, he began to ponder it more seriously. After returning to his store, Lovell sat down to think as earnestly and as conclusively as possible. “This, or ruin!” he at length exclaimed, starting up and moving hurriedly about for a short time. “ Mary will let me have the use of her money, I know, and all can be made right. No one wall be injured; no one need ever know that such a trans¬ action was made.” In an evil hour the tempter prevailed. Alfred Lo veil made two fictitious notes, of tw’o thousand dollars each, in his own favour, and endorsed thereon the name of a wealthy New York house, the signature of wdiich he had in his possession. On these notes he readily obtained the cash from a broker with whom he was well acquainted. This done, he lost no time in replying to Mary’s letter. “My dear sister,” he wrote, “your affectionate let¬ ter reached me to-day, and deeply touched my feel¬ ings ; the more so, perhaps, because it found me trou- BROTHER AND SISTER. 119 \ bled and depressed in spirits. Ah, Mary! yon say truly, that I lost every thing in losing my mother. Thrust out among strangers, where were none to sym¬ pathize with me, to take me kindly by the hand, or to breathe a word of tender regard in my ear, I suffered more than I will attempt to describe: and, worst of all, was exposed to evils in many dangerous and alluring forms. I feel—principally feel—that I am not to-day what I would have been had my mother lived—not what I would have been, Mary, if the love and care of a gentle sister had been mine. It was unjust, to me at least, that early and perfect separation. For your tender letter, my heart thanks you. Let us be, in the future, as we should have been in the past— brother and sister in truth, and not in name only.” To this came quickly a reply from Mary, breathing even a warmer spirit of sisterly affection than did her first letter. “ Can you not make me a short visit, Alfred,” said she. “ It is long since we met, I would so like to look upon your face once more.” Alfred answered this by promising, as soon as his business would permit him to leave New York for a few days, to make her a short visit. The ease with which Lovell obtained cash on forged paper, led him to repeat the same dishonest and dangerous mode of financiering, until he was comparatively easy in mo¬ ney matters. It was far from his purpose to wrong any one in these transactions. He meant to provide for the fictitious paper when it came due. All he 1-20 BROTHER AND SISTER. wanted was time to get Mary’s ten thousand dollars into his hands. A few weeks after Mary received her first letter from Alfred, he wrote to her he was about making her a visit, and mentioned the time when she might expect him. On the day that he was to come, Mary’s heart beat tumultuously from the time the morning broke until the hour when the stage arrived that brought her brother. She was standing at the gar¬ den gate, looking for his appearance, when the stage drove up. “ My dear sister!” he exclaimed, as he threw his arms around her neck and kissed her. “ How glad I am to meet you once more.” There was something disordered in the look and manner of Alfred that seemed strange to his sister— something that caused her to shrink from him. A few minutes only elapsed before she comprehended its meaning. He was more than half intoxicated ! Oh, what a thrill of pain went through her heart as this truth flashed upon her!” The sudden change in her manner was perceived by Alfred, who, like most persons in his particular situation, tried to conceal his lapse from sobriety by affecting a nonchalant air, thus exposing himself more fully to all eyes. “ Alfred,” said Mr. Edwards, the uncle, soon after the young man’s appearance, “ you are fatigued with riding; will you not go up stairs, and lie down for an hour or two ?” “Fatigued ! Bless your heart, uncle,” replied the BROTHER AND SISTER. 121 young man, “that is something to which I am a stranger. Oh no! a trip across the Rocky mountains wouldn’t fatigue me, much less a few hours ride like this. But how well you look, aunt!” addressing Mrs. Edwards. “ I don’t see that you have grown a day older since I was a boy.” The aunt replied gravely. But this only caused Alfred to be gayer and more talkative than before. Poor Mary ! How her heart did ache ! Was it thus she met her brother ? Alas! were not her mother’s fears painfully realized ! For several hours the family were compelled to bear with the young man’s rude familiarity, the effect of partial intoxication; then, as the brandy, of which he had taken freely, began to die in him, he grew dull and silent. Soon after tea he was induced to retire, when Mary sought her own chamber to spend the night in weeping. When the brother and sister met at the breakfast- table, on the next morning, both looked as if they had passed sleepless nights. This was really the case only with Mary. Alfred had slept soundly enough; but his nerves, long accustomed to artificial stimu¬ lants, were, as was usual in the mornings, com¬ pletely unstrung. All the lines of his face were drawn down, and the muscles unsteady. In lifting his cup of coffee, his hand trembled so that he spilled a portion of the contents on the table ; and, when he got it to his lips, he swallowed eagerly, like one con¬ suming with thirst. 122 BROTHER AND SISTER. “ I’m so nervous,” he said apologetically. “1 don’t know what is coming over me.” “You are a very young man, Alfred,” said Mr. Edwards, seriously, “to have so unsteady a hand. Mine scarcely shows a tremor;” and he held his hand up steadily. “In the city,” replied Alfred, “none have the ro¬ bust health you denizens of the country enjoy.” “I’m afraid your city habits, more than your city atmosphere, affect your nerves,” said the uncle. “ There may be something in that,” was coolly re¬ plied. “ We keep later hours, and coniine ourselves too much within doors. We have, besides, more ex¬ citement, and that exhausts the nervous energy.” By the time Alfred had taken a hot cup of coffee, his nerves became a little steadier, and the peculiar haggard, exhausted expression, which all had noticed, began to give way to a lively play of the features. Soon after breakfast, he made an excuse to go down to the village, half a mile distant from the dwelling of Mr. Edwards. When he returned, he was in a gayer humour than when he went away; and Mary perceived that he had been drinking freely. During the afternoon he went over to the village again. He did not come back until some time after night had closed in, and then he was so much under the influence of liquor that he came in staggering, and had to be guided by Mr. Edwards up to his chamber, where he fell across the bed with all his clothes on, and in this condition passed a greater part of the night. BROTHER AND SISTER. 123 It seemed as if the young man was possessed—to make the very worst possible exhibition of himself. The shock of all this to Mary was terrible. When she saw her brother come reeling in after having long waited for his return in a state of trembling anxiety, the effect was so painful that she grew sick, and, in a little while, fainted away. On the next morning she i did not come down to breakfast; and on going to her room it was found that she was too ill to rise. It was ten o’clock before Alfred joined the family. Mr. Edwards met him, as he came down from his room, with a grave face. “ Good morning,” said Alfred. “ Good morning,” returned Mr. Edwards, coldly. “I’ve rather overslept myself.” said Alfred. “I don’t much wonder at that!” remarked his un¬ cle, in a voice that somewhat amazed the young man. “Why do you say that?” he inquired, his brows contracting as he spoke. “ I hardly think my words require explanation!” said Mr. Edwards. “But to speak plainly, I regret exceedingly your present visit, seeing that it has brought only pain to one for whom you profess to cherish affection.” “What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Alfred in a stern voice. “Last night,” replied Mr. Edwards, “you came home so much intoxicated that it was with difficulty we could get you up to your bed. The shock to your sister was so great, that she is seriously ill in conse quence.” 124 BROTHER AND SISTER. At these words Alfred sunk into a chair, nerveless, his eyes drooping to the floor. There was silence for nearly a minute, at the end of which time Mr. Ed¬ wards said— “ Alfred, it is plain that you have gone far in the road to destruction. So young, and yet so abandoned to a vice that ruins every thing! How could you come here to blast, with your presence, the happiness of so guileless, so innocent, so loving a creature as your sister? It was not the act of a true brother.” The first part of this sentence touched the young man’s feelings; the last stung him to the quick, and awoke his anger. Arising with some dignity of man¬ ner, he replied in a cold, offended tone of voice— “ I will blast her happiness with my presence no longer. Good morning, sir!” And he went hurriedly from the house, not heed¬ ing the voice of Mr. Edwards, who called after him. It so happened that the voices of the two men were louder in this exciting interview than either of them supposed, and ascended to the room of Mary, who heard distinctly nearly all that passed between them. As Alfred left the house, she sprang from the bed upon which she was lying, and throwing open the window, called after him in a voice of anguish. Alfred heard her, but he merely turned, without stopping, and waved an adieu with his hand. Again she called, leaning eagerly from the window; but he heeded not, nor paused. Ill with fever and nervous prostration, this sudden excitement, followed by as sudden a reaction, sus- (126) JIAUT PRAYING FOR HKH BROTHER 9 9 BROTHER AND SISTER. 127 pended again the vital action in Mary’s system. Her uncle was still standing where Alfred had left him, when he was startled by the jar of some heavy body falling above. Ascending the stairs at a bound, and opening the door of Mary’s room, he discovered his niece lying senseless upon the floor. The effect of this added shock was of the most se¬ rious character. Mary was dangerously ill for a week. Then she began to recover slowly, and nearly two weeks more elapsed ere she was well enough to leave her chamber. As she gained strength enough to sit up, her mind began to turn, with a troubled interest, to Alfred ! Alas! how sadly had the fears of their mother been realized ! One day (it was after her strength had sufficiently returned to sit up most of her time) Mary took from its place of deposit the letter of her mother, and read it over again, weeping at every sentence. Then, re¬ folding, she placed it in her bosom, and clasping her hands together, looked up and prayed audibly— ‘‘Heavenly Father, call back my wandering bro¬ ther ! O, save him from the direful evil into which he has fallen ! Give strength and intelligence of pur¬ pose to enable me to follow and win him from the error of his ways !” In that moment of devotion, when the earnest love of her pure heart went forth unselfishly towards her brother, she resolved to save the erring one at any sacrifice she dared to make. From that moment Mary recovered rapidly. A 128 BROTHER AND SISTER. % month afterwards—not once in that time had she heard from Alfred—she said to her aunt— “ I have, after much prayer and reflection, made up my mind to do a thing that I know both you and un¬ cle will disapprove.” “What is that?” inquired Mrs. Edw*ards, looking surprised and alarmed. “ I am going to New York.” “What!” “ I am going to New York to see after Alfred.” “Are you beside yourself, Mary?” said Mrs. Ed¬ wards. “ No, aunt. My mind was never clearer nor calmer. You have never seen that!” And, as she spoke, she handed Mrs. Edwards her mother’s letter. After reading this over twice, the aunt, who was a good deal affected by it, sat silent for the space of many minutes. Some thoughts passed through her mind that were far from being pleasant. She it was who had caused so rigid a sepa¬ ration, even from the first, between the brother and sister; and this letter of the dying mother came to her with a strong rebuke. “ Mary,” said she, at length, in a voice slightly disturbed, “ you must not think of doing as you have just said.” “ Aunt!” returned Mary, speaking strongly, “ my mother has spoken to me from the grave. Can I dis¬ regard her solemn injunction ? No! If my own heart did not prompt me to what I am about doing, this BROTHER AND SISTER. 129 weight of responsibility that she has laid upon me, would be sufficient.” “ Mary, Mary ! this cannot be. Some other means • must be adopted.” “No influence as strong as mine can be brought to bear upon him,” quickly replied Mary. “ On me the duty of reclaiming him devolves, and it must not be delegated, to another.” ‘ It was all in vain that Mrs. Edwards sought to in¬ fluence the mind of her niece. Her resolution to do what she said remained unaltered. When the matter came before the uncle, he was greatly excited about it, and said that he would per¬ mit no such ridiculous conduct on the part of Mary. But he was not long in discovering that the maiden, young as she was, had formed a resolution which was not in the least to be shaken. Neither angry denunciation, nor kind persuasion had-the smallest effect upon her. Being of legal age, she was now free from all constraining influence. Reluctantly, at length, the aunt and uncle were forced to let her go; and she started, alone, on her mission of love. We say alone, in the true sense. An escort was obtained for her, and she was consigned to the care of some friends of Mr. and Mrs. Edwards in New York ; but, so far as her mission was concerned, she was alone. When Alfred Lovell went back, humbled, morti¬ fied, and disappointed in the real object of his visit to his sister, he felt like a criminal with the hounds of the law upon his track. In the desperation of his feelings, when ruin stared him in the face, he had to 130 BROTHER AND SISTER. .# escape that ruin, madly resorted to forgery—not with the intent to wrong any one, but as a temporary ex¬ pedient to obtain relief; and now, no way to escape the dreadful consequences of that act presented * itself. “ Accursed brandy!” he muttered between his teeth, as he sat in his room, with a bottle of the fiery poison before him, on the night of his return to New York. “Accursed brandy! Once you came between me and a fortune; and once between me and salvation from ruin. Accursed thing!” Like a maniac he ground his teeth, while an insane light flashed angrily from his eyes. “I shall go mad!” he at length said, in a calmer voice, “ mad! mad !” And he poured a glass full of brandy as he spoke. “ In my bane let me find an antidote.” Eagerly he swallowed this large draught of spirits. Then covering both hands over his face, he leaned back in the large chair in which he was sitting, and rocked himself with a quick, nervous motion. After awhile, this motion ceased, and his heavy apoplectic breathing told that he was asleep. It was long after midnight when he awoke. The lamp was flickering in its expiring pulsations, when he started up from a terrible dream of the courthouse and prison, and it was minutes before he was able to comprehend his true position. Then, with a heavy groan, he threw himself across the bed, and thus passed the hours till morning. Already Lovell had forged paper to the amount of 131 BROTHER AND SISTER. six thousand dollars, and still he was under a pressure. The horrible fear that now came over him, in view of the failure to make a right impression on his sister’s mind, prevented a further progress in that dungeon’s ward. To retrace his steps was now the most earnest thought in his mind. But how was he to get back? He might struggle on and keep afloat for a few months longer, but when the forged paper came due, he would have no means of protecting it. He shuddered, as a thought of the consequences glanced through his mind. One day, a few weeks after Lovell’s return from his visit to his sister, he had just succeeded in raising sufficient money to meet his payments, and was begin- ing to turn his thoughts on the ways and means of getting through the morrow, when a sheriff's officer presented himself and arrested him. For some cause the suspicions of the holders of one of his fictitious notes were aroused, and, on taking it to the firm whose endorsement it bore, it was promptly pronounced a forgery. So completely prostrated was the young man by this event, that he made no attempt to get bail; but went to the “ Tombsand as he sat in despair in his cell, hearkened to the suggestions of the tempter, and meditated self destruction. He had been for an hour within the prison’s gloomy - walls. Thought had driven him almost to madness. Hurriedly passed in review before him his brief ca¬ reer, and he saw the follies of his life in all their darker shades. “ I have dragged ruin down upon 10 132 m BROTHER AND SISTER. my own head!” he murmured, as he wrung his hands in agony. “Disgrace, exposure!” He shuddered. “ I cannot meet these!” There was a small knife in the pocket of the wretched man, and his hand was upon it. He was slowly drawing it forth, when a key rattled suddenly in the lock of the door, w T hich, in a moment after, swung open and a woman closely veiled, entered. “ My brother!” she exclaimed, drawing aside the veil, and showing the face of Mary. “ My brother!” and she sunk down beside him on the prison couch where he sat, and, throwing an arm around his neck, hid her face on his breast, and wept violently. “Oh Alfred! Alfred!” she sobbed after the lapse of a short time, “why are you here?” “And why are you here, Mary?” asked the young man, in as firm a voice as he could assume—yet its steadiness did not conceal the agony that was in his heart. “ I have come to save you, Alfred; if that be pos¬ sible,” “ It is too late, Mary,” replied Alfred; “ too late “ Say not so, my brother. It is never too late while life throbs in the veins.” “ It is too late, Mary, too late !” repeated the young man wildly. “ Be calm, my brother,” said Mary, herself grow¬ ing calm, and speaking with a, kind of enthusiasm. “ Tell me why you are here ?” “Do you not know?” quickly asked the brother. “ I arrived in the city but an hour ago, and learned, i (133) t BROTHER AND SISTER. 135 on inquiring for you, that you were here. But the cause was not stated.” “ Seek no further knowledge on this subject,” said Alfred. “ Go home again, and forget that you ever had a brother.” “Alfred,” replied Mary, with much feeling, “I came here to be to you a true sister; to make any sa¬ crifice in my power to secure your good. Tell me, then, why you are here, that I may procure your re¬ lease. Confide in me.” “Go, Mary, go!” said the young man, pushing her away. “ I will not leave you, Alfred, except to procure your release.” “I am a criminal!” exclaimed the brother, with a sudden energy of expression. The face of Mary grew instantly pale, and a shud¬ der passed over her. Seeing the effect of his words, Lovell said— “ But not in heart, Mary. I did not mean to wrong any one.” “ He then, in a calm voice, related to his sister all the particulars of his case, concealing nothing in ex¬ tenuation, except his purpose to get the use of her portion. When he had done, Mary arose from the bed upon which she had been sitting. “ I will see you again in a short time,” said she, moving towards the door, on the outside of which stood the turnkey. “ What are you going to do?” asked Alfred. “ Procure your release,” replied Mary. 136 BROTHER AND SISTER. “ Mary—” but she was gone. It was late in the afternoon, and an old gentleman, senior member of a large importing house in Pearl street, sat reading a newspaper, when the door of his counting-room, in which he was, alone, opened, and a young lady stepped in. As she drew aside her * veil, he saw that her face, which was pale, and had a look of distress, was one of singular beauty. Not a brilliant beauty, but one in which sweetness and in¬ nocence were leading features. “ Mr. R-?” said she, in a low, unsteady voice. “ My name,” replied the old gentleman, as he arose and ofFered her a chair. She sat down, but was so overcome by her feelings, that it was some time before she could utter any thing further. At length she said— “ My brother is in prison at your instance.” “ Your brother ! Who is he ?” “ A young man w T ho, in great extremity, madly resorted to the forgery of your name, in order to ob¬ tain money.” “Lovell?” “Yes, Alfred Lovell. But he did not mean to wrong you in the end,” said Mary in a pleading voice. “ It was only an expedient.” The merchant shook his head and looked serious. “ I have just seen him in prison, and this to me is his solemn asseveration. I believe it.” There was an air about the young lady that in¬ spired Mr. R-with a feeling of both interest and respect. BROTHER AND SISTER. 137 “ Your brother,” he replied, “is now in the hands of the law. He is beyond my control.” “ I am just of legal age,” said Mary, after a pause of some moments, “and am to receive ten thousand dollars in my own right. This I will devote to the safety of my brother. As orphan children we were separated, and now, after many years, my heart turns to him again, and I am ready to sacrifice every thing for him. Have you a son and daughter, sir?” The tone and look with which this last sentence was spoken, touched the merchant’s feelings, and softened his heart. Before Mary came in, he had felt exceedingly angry towards Lovell, and was resolved to let the law have full course, if it condemned the unhappy young man to an expiation of his criminal error within the walls of a state prison. “What can I do in the matter?” he asked, in a voice that was changed and much subdued. “ If I meet all the loss that has been sustained, so that harm comes tcfc no one, will it not be in your power to save my brother from the legal penalties of his error?” The merchant cast his eyes to the floor, and re¬ mained for some time thoughtful. “ I do not know you,” said he, at length, looking up. Mary understood his meaning fully. A warm tinge came to her cheeks, as she replied— “True; but if I can bring you evidence to show that what I say about having ten thousand dollars is i 138 BROTHER AND SISTER. true, will you procure my brother’s immediate re¬ lease from prison ?” “Your friends may not permit you to use this money in the way you propose.” “ It was my mother’s before she died,” answered Mary, with a good deal of feeling, and I will use it as she would do were she now living. No friends can control its disposition. Do you know Mr. Ed¬ ward P-?” “ Very well.” “ Come with me to his house.” “ Are you in his family ?” • “ Yes, while I remain in the city. “ You do not live in New York?” “ No sir.” The merchant was more and more favourably im¬ pressed with Mary every moment; and to this favour¬ able impression was rapidly succeeding a feeling of lively interest. After another long pause for re¬ flection, he said— • “ And you will secure all parties from loss in con¬ sequence of your brother’s unfortunate errors.” “ I will—and you may trust my word.” But you do not know to what extent he has com¬ mitted forgeries.” “He has assured me, solemnly, that the whole amount of money obtained by him in this way was but six thousand dollars.” There was another long pause, and then the mer¬ chant said, as he arose— ^ 4 BROTHER AND SISTER. 139 " Remain here for a quarter of an hour, and I will see what can be done.” How anxiously did the sister wait for Mr. R-’s return ! It was over half an hour before he came back. “ Take that to the keeper of the prison,” said he, as he came in, extending, as he spoke, a paper, “ and he will set your brother free.” “ May the Lord bless you, and reward you a thou¬ sand fold,” replied Mary, lifting her tearful eyes up¬ wards, as she seized the papers. Then turning quickly away, she said, in a hurried voice, as she was leaving the room, “ I will see you again, sir.” For nearly an hour after Mary left his cell, the un- happy young man paced the narrow apartment in which he was confined, his feelings alternating be¬ tween hope and fear, shame, despair, and bitter self- condemnation. In that short space of time was re¬ corded the rebuking memories of years. “ Oh! how madly have I pulled down ruin upon my own head !” he exclaimed, throwing his arms into the air, soon after Mary had gone on her errand of mercy. “ For the mere pleasure of sense, I have sa¬ crificed my best interests on earth, and almost my hopes of heaven.” Exhausted by the violence of his emotion, Lovell at length dropped upon his bed, and burying up his face, lay suffering most intensely for a time longer. As he lay thus, the door of his cell opened. He heard the key in the wards, and the noise of the door as it 140 BROTHER AND SISTER. turned upon its hinges; he heard, also, light feet upon the paved floor, approaching him quickly, but he did not look up. A hand was placed upon his arm. It was that of his sister, and he knew the touch. Still, he did not look up. “Alfred,” said a low, eager voice, “come! You are free!” i “ Free !” returned the young man, now rising up, but slowly. “Free, did you say, sister?” “ Yes, Alfred, free. Come ! let us hasten from this dreadful place.” “ And you have done this, Mary ?” “ Yes, Alfred, I have done it; or rather, it has been done through my intercession. But come, brother, come ! I cannot bear to have you remain here a sin¬ gle moment longer.” “ God bless you, Mary !” said Alfred, with deep fervour—“ God bless you ! I do not deserve such a sister. You are my good angel. O, that you had power to lead me from the labyrinth of evil into which my feet have strayed.” The young man still remained sitting on the bed. “ Come !” repeated Mary. “ I had better remain here, than go out and be as I have been,” murmured Alfred, half to himself. “Will you dp one thing?” asked Mary; “one thing for my sake. All that I possess have I pledged for you. Will—” “ Speak, sister ! If it is my life, it is yours.” “ It is a little thing in itself, but great in its con¬ sequences.” BROTHER AND SISTER. 141 “I promise.’’ “ Will you abandon the cup of bewilderment? Will you—” “ Mary !” said Alfred, interrupting her—he spoke in a solemn voice—“ I promise, before Heaven, to do this.” “ Then you are safe ! Come !” responded Mary, in eager tones. The young man arose, and followed his sister out. A carriage awaited them, in which they drove to a hotel. On the next morning they left the city. An assignment of the business was then made in New York for the benefit of his creditors. All the forged paper was taken up by Mary, notwithstanding the opposition of her uncle—who was angry beyond mea¬ sure at her conduct in the affairs of her brother—and being destroyed, left no evidence against him. The remainder of her property she placed in his hands as a basis for new business efforts. In these, guided by former experience, he was more successful than in his former trial. Five or six years have elapsed, and Alfred Lovell is now an active member in a rapidly growing house in Philadelphia, the senior partner of which is the husband of his sister. Faithfully has he kept his pro¬ mise to Mary, made in the gloomy cell of a prison. And, verily, for her self-sacrificing, sisterly devotion, she has had her reward. CHARLEY RANDOLPH. By Francis C. Woodworth. I do not wonder that Fancy, when unchecked by revelation, has so often represented this world as a vast arena, on which two rival bands of genii, like the gladiators of a former age, are constantly contend¬ ing for the mastery. I do not wonder that in the mythic poetry of that age, every man is supposed to have attached to him a good demon and an evil one— the former prompting to noble, virtuous deeds, and the latter leading the soul astray; for, after all, there never was a scion of superstition engrafted on the dismem¬ bered trunk of truth, that had not its origin in truth ■—some truth or other. It must be so; else that scion would not be homogeneous enough to grow there, and ripen its fruit. Superstition is the poetry, the ro¬ mance of the invisible world. In it, if we will seek for them there, we may always find indexes of known or probable truths. In many instances, indeed, it is scarcely necessary to do more than render this poetry, this mythos, into prose, to discover the truth. No one [ am sure, accustomed to habits of thought, especially if he sets himself to wmrk to trace the relation between ( 142 ) CHARLEY RANDOLPH. 143 causes and effects in the moral world, whether or not he receives the sentiment of Milton as something: O more than a poet’s imagery, that “ Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth, Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep—” * i No such one, I am confident, can resist the conviction that we are all surrounded by two opposite and con¬ flicting classes of influences and motives—the one leading to virtue and holiness, the other to vice and crime. One of the most fearful problems which the lapse of years has eventually solved under my eye, has been, whether, in the life of one whom I loved, this class of influences and motives would prevail, or that. And it is often not a problem, which, to the human perception, is solved at once. Oh, wdiat strug¬ gles have I seen between reason, conscience, religion, on the one hand,—and appetite, passion, and the syren of vice, on the other ! Reader, will you listen to a little sketch from my portfolio, of this character ? It is a sad one—too sad, perhaps you will say. But it carries a lesson along with it which is worth learning, and if learned, is worthy of being engraved with the point of a diamond on the memory of every one, and especially of every young man. It is a sketch of a tempted, struggling, falling, fallen man. It was in the spring of 184-, that I last visited the graveyard of the little village of C-, some miles inland from one of the most charming cities in Con¬ necticut. I love a country graveyard. I love to read the inscriptions, rude and uncouth as many of them y 144 CHARLEY RANDOLPH. are, upon the stones which mark the resting-place of the departed. But I love this inclosure more than any other. It is the graveyard of my native village. Here rest the ashes of a mother whom I almost wor¬ shipped; and here too is the form of a cherished sister, a flower cut down while yet fair and lovely, and transferred to heaven. Side by side they rest— all that is earthly of the mother and the sister; and as I sit near the mounds above them, I seem to hold a closer and sweeter communion with their spirits. While I was wandering among the graves in this inclosure, during the visit to which I have alluded, my attention was directed to one evidently made but a few months. The earth was fresh around it, and it was plain that the chisel of the untutored sculptor had just traced the words of a mourner’s love upon that humble headstone. J turned to read them: “Charles Randolph, died Feb. 22d, 184-, aged 31 years.” It was the name of one whom I once loved as a brother ! Though somewhat my senior in years, the closest intimacy and friendship existed between us during the sunny period of boyhood. We shared each other’s little joys and sorrows. We sat side by side in the village school. We gamboled in the woods and meadows together. The sports of one were never complete without the.presence of the other. And Charles was dead ! His sun had gone down while it was yet day. How did he fall ? I must tell you. I had not heard of my friend for several years preceding the time when I first saw his tombstone. I had not forgotten him. But amid the cares of my CHARLEY RANDOLPH. 145 profession, I gradually ceased to correspond with him, and I at length lost the place of his residence. The last time I saw him was at his wedding. Charles married long after I left C-for a distant home; but I was summoned to witness his happiness. The object of his choice was one with whom we had both been familiar from childhood. She was a charming girl. Often, at school, have I looked slyly at her over the top of my spelling-book, from my seat across the room, and thought there was no face so beautiful, no form so graceful and fairy-like, as Emma’s. I am but an indifferent philosopher. I never made any pretensions in that way. But since a riper manhood has overtaken me, I have often stopped a moment or two, with perchance a slight fluttering of the heart, as my memory daguerreotyped anew the scenes of my childhood, to inquire what was the meaning of some of those earlier emotions. I have analvzed them %/ not a little, and endeavoured, though never so as to satisfy myself, to place them under their appropriate caption in psychology. Verily, love has some curious and unaccountable phases, or there were ingenious and well-executed counterfeits of it in circulation among some of us, long before we had reached the first of those broad stairs in our progress towards ma¬ turity, called the teens. But I am a poor philosopher, as I said before. Charles and Emma were young when they met at the altar—young and happy. They were not rich. Their parents did not entail on them the curse of a fortune. They gave them a respectable “setting 146 CHARLEY RANDOLPH. out,*’ to use the stereotype expression current in our neighbourhood—they gave them that, and their bless¬ ing—no more. With that patrimony, Charles and his bride, soon after their union, catching the en¬ thusiasm of the enterprising sons and daughters of Connecticut, left their pleasant home and emigrated westward, to seek their fortune in the wilderness of northern Pennsylvania. At this point I lost sight of them—with one of them for ever—with the other, till I saw her a crushed and broken-hearted widow—a Naomi, returned to bury her husband, and to die among her kindred. The important incidents in their history subsequent to the period of their emigration, I learned from a reliable source in C-. Charles was an industrious, ambitious man—a daring fellow he was, too. If there were any dangers to be encountered in our youthful exploits, Charlev Randolph was always summoned to lead the way. He carried this spirit—so indispensable to a farmer beginning his career in a forest where the axe of the woodman had never been heard—to his new' home, if home that spot could be called which had to offer him only the logs for his cottage. He set resolutely to work ; the tall oaks and pines fell fast around him : soon he had a house—a log house, to be sure, but it was comfortable enough, they thought—and Emma said, laughingly, that they would at least have a prac¬ tical illustration of that very romantic scene, “ love in a cottage.” And so they did, without so much as consulting a single fashionable French novel to learn the art. CHARLEY RANDOLPH 147 The detailed routine of an emigrant’s life—his struggles with the giants of the forest, amid the thou¬ sand privations consequent upon a life so far removed from the delights of refined society—would be tedious enough. I shall be excused, if I pass hastily over these matters. It will suffice to say that on the banks of the Susquehanna, near one of those many grand and glorious gorges between two contiguous O O O C3 O hills that mark that noble stream in its tortuous flow towards the vale of Wyoming, there soon appeared a farm, abundantly rewarding the labour of the hus¬ bandman, and that farm was Charles Randolph’s More than four years had passed. Other settlers had arrived. It was not so lonely in that Pennsylvania Charles Randolph’s farm. I 148 CHARLEY RANDOLPH. forest. God had prospered my friend. He was happy—so was Emma. Why should they not be happy ? Their hearts were intwined together as closely as the tendrils of the ivy on the old oak which they had left near their cottage door, to bless them with its shade, and to be a home for the robin and the bluebird. That was enough to make them happy. But God gave them another blessing. Oh ! what joy there was in that cottage, as little Josephine passed successively through the stages of frolicking, lisping, creeping, walking, and, I scarcely know what besides. Then heaven sent them another babe, and their cup of joy was full. Did Charles forget God, then, as he pressed his boy to his heart, and as he heard the idol of his affections, his own Emma, call the little one Charley ? I know not.- “ Charles, my dear, you will not go out to night, will you? It rains very fast, and I want you at home. Did you know you had one of the most selfish wives in the world, Charles?” So said Mrs. Randolph, perhaps less than a year after the event just related ; and, as she said it, she looked more sad than usual, for she had observed a change in her hus¬ band, a slight change, but it alarmed her a little. He did not love home less, perhaps— perhaps !—but he had learned to find pleasure in the bar-room of a neighbouring tavern, which some Yankee settler, with an enthusiastic desire to promote the public good, had recently erected. The loving, trusting wife knew that her husband went there simply for society; but CHARLEY RANDOLPH. 149 she had a lurking, ^indefinable, almost prophetic fear that it might not always be thus. In a moment, Randolph determined he would stay at home that night. But then he thought of an en¬ gagement—might not that engagement have been innocently set aside ?—and he said, tenderly, “ I think I must go, dear; but I will not stay long.”—Charles Randolph ! take care ! Thou hast already placed thy feet on one of the steps to ruin ! Take care ! Listen to the voice of thy better genius. Hark! it whispers to thee now. Nay, heed not that other voice. Let not the tempter lure thee to thy ruin. Stop! thou hast even now cause to tremble. Hast thou not al¬ ready entered the wicket-gate that leads from the path of virtue and peace, to the path of vice and sorrow? Take care! think of thy wife, Charles, and of thy dear little babes. Alas! he has gone, and the part¬ ner of his bosom is kneeling at the cradle of her boy, and pouring out her heart to God for the tempted man. Tears, bitter tears, roll down her cheeks. Can it be ?—but no, no—that were impossible ! and she is < calm again. Thus it is with the sorrow-stricken wo¬ man, the victim of a grief she cannot reveal, and of a fear she cannot acknowledge, even to herself. Love, pure as an angel’s and stronger than the grave; hope, lighting up the darkest night; trust, that spurns every suspicion, as the voice of the tempter; constancy, like the everlasting hills;—these nerve her arm, and im¬ part to her a heroism a thousand-fold more worthy of the world’s applause than that which is exhibited on the battle-field. 150 CHARLEY RANDOLPH. Charles Randolph, the devoted husband and fond father, loved more and more the excitement of the bar-room. Many, many times, when his wife tear¬ fully remonstrated with him, he resolved to leave that dangerous path. But his resolutions were broken. In less than seven years from the day of his marriage, lie was a confirmed inebriate. Poverty stared that family in the face. His grim visage entered the door of their cottage, and became an inmate there. Another year passed—tw r o, perhaps. One night, a bleak, cold, stormy night in February, that poor victim of intemperance sought his accustomed haunt, the tavern. Like an insect that plays around the flame which is consuming him, fascinated by the blaze, Randolph, though sensible that he was descend¬ ing the steps to ruin, w T as yet urged on by an appe¬ tite which he had not now the power to control. That was a bitter cold night: fiercely howled the winds around the once happy home of Charles and Emma. The snow fell profusely, and was hurled into drifts as it reached the earth. Long and anxiously the wife and mother looked for the absent one—but he came not. He left the inn late, with the bottle in his hand. Poor man ! His tale is soon told : “ Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home.” He was found, when the morning dawned, lying in the road near his cottage, stiff and cold, with his dog caressing him, and striving to rouse him from the sleep of death! DEATH OP CHABLES BAKDOLPH. (151) A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. By Mbs. R. S. Harvxy. “ I wouldn’t marry an awkward man, or one who has a stoop in the shoulders, would you, Charlotte?” said the lively Sarah Cunningham, as a small party of young ladies lingered over the dessert in Mr. Cun¬ ningham’s dining-room. “ I don’t think it likely I shall ever marry,” said Charlotte Ludlow, demurely placing a nut between the nut-crackers. “ Oh no, of course not,” returned the first speaker, “like all ( 153 ) 154 THE FIRST GLASS OF WINE. proper young ladies, we all expect to be grave and sorrowful old maids; but suppose such a thing were to happen ; wouldn’t you like your husband to be tall and noble looking, so that you could look up to him. admiringly?” “ No, I don’t think I care much for personal appearance; but I should like him to be wise as Socrates, and eloquent as Cicero.” “And what would you like, sister Julia?” said the youngest of the party, addressing one whose earnest eye be¬ tokened a mind intelligent and reflecting beyond the others. “I should have no objection to personal beauty or brilliant talents, certainly,” replied Julia Cunningham, with a smile; “but oh,” she added, in a more serious tone, “ I could not love one that I did not believe beyond the dominion of any vice.” “ Vice ? why how came you to think of such a thing?” asked Sarah inquiringly. “ Who’d dream of marrying a vicious man ?” “ None of us, I’m sure,” replied her sister; “ but the thought was suggested by passing a person in the street this morning, of genteel appear¬ ance, and so dreadfully intoxicated—I crossed the street with an involuntary shudder—but, as I turned away, I sighed to think, that perhaps some wife had once loved him, some sister had had pride in him.” “ Once loved him !” repeated Charlotte ;• “ why, if she once loved him, she must love him yet; you know, the old song says— “ ‘ When once her gentle bosom knows Love’s flame, it wanders never; Deep in her heart the passion glows She loves and loves for ever.’ ” THE FIRST GLASS OF WINE. 155 “ Songs are not always tlie best authority, even in love matters,” replied Julia; “for my part, I think I could love through every test of feeling but that. I could endure disappointment, grief, and toil—but degradation— never!” “Well, if that’s so shocking,” said Sarah, quickly, “ I’d better just tap William Russell on the shoulder when I next see him indulg¬ ing in a glass of wine. There’s no knowing what might come of it.” A laugh all round followed this sally, and Julia replied, smiling, “Don’t give your¬ self the trouble, sister dear, it would not be worth while to trust one with aught else, that could not be trusted to take a glass of wine.” A lively bantering on the theme of William Russell now commenced, and Sarah declared that he was to be the happy man from four inferences wdiich she w T as ready to demonstrate; and the mirth w^as ringing some lively peals when Julia interposed—“ Hush, you noisy ones; papa is taking his after-dinner nap in the next room, and it is the only indulgence, you know, which dear papa ever alknvs himself.” “ I wish papa w r ould get rich,” said Sarah, with a half sigh, “ then he needn’t wear him¬ self out so in this everlasting business /” “ I don’t see much chance of that,” returned Julia, “ while busi¬ ness is so dull, and there are so many birds in the nest which papa has to keep warm and comfortable.” “Then suppose some of us take a fly,” said Sarah; “you are the oldest, why don’t you begin?” This renewed the easily-excited laughter, for youth waits not for real wit to provoke the smile; and Julia, shaking her Anger admonishingly, arose to summon 156 A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. the servant to remove the things. A promenade was now arranged by the rest of the party, who ran rapidly up stairs for the bonnets and the mantles, and Julia, entering the room where her father was sleeping, softly arranged the window curtain that the light might not fall upon his face. She then gathered up the music which had been littered about, and placed it neatly in the music-rack: restored the room to its wonted orderly appearance, and, drawing her work- stand to the window, took up her needlework and commenced sewing steadily. As she worked, some sweet thought which had nestled in her heart ex¬ panded itself upon her expressive face. First the dark eye lightened with a brilliant animation, and the lips parted in a happy smile—but then came an ex¬ pression of softened grief, and tears sprang to her eyes. Julia Cunningham was the eldest of a large and lovely family, and both parents had ever turned to her in the vicissitudes of their earthly career, as a solace, and, in some sense, a support. Mrs Cunning¬ ham, a woman of gentle and retiring spirit, feeble in health, and worn down by the cares of a numerous household, had gradually assigned to Julia a place better becoming the head of a family, and had de¬ lighted to find refuge in her energy and promptitude from those petty and harassing cares which follow in the train of a large family and straitened means; and Mr. Cunningham, suddenly plunged from apparent affluence into a long and weary struggle with em¬ barrassed circumstances, had found, in his intelligent A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. 157 and thoughtful daughter, one always ready to listen to his plans—to sympathize in his disappointments, and to inspire the heart anew with the sweet encou¬ ragements of hope. And Julia’s was not a passive sympathy with either parent. Most people in their station of life thought it necessary to keep two or three domestics, but Julia arose early to arrange the breakfast-room, and see that all was comfortable for her father’s early meal; and then she was always ready for the nursery, helping mamma with the little ones, so that the Cunninghams were always neat and orderly with but one servant. Dearly, too, as she loved the indulgence of her own refined tastes, which her parents had spared no pains to cultivate with their then ample means, she was always ready to lay aside the book, and put up the drawing to instruct a little brother or sister who was too young to go to school; and when new clothes were to be provided, and seasonable arrangements made, none made the purse hold out so well as Julia, and no fingers flew so fast as hers in the domestic manufactory. What wonder, then, that the parents sighed, as well as smiled, at beholding not a few of the other sex ready to lay the heart offering on the shrine of their fair daughter ! What wonder, while they watched with anxious solicitude the choice that would bind up her earthly destinies, they talked pensively to each other of the blank that would follow in their household ! “ I cannot see any reason for haste in the matter,” said Mr. Cunningham to his \vife, as they stole away from the parlour to indulge in an hour of sober chat << 158 A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. in their own apartment. “ Hard as you toil and strive for them, my dear, I think you will never see reason to be in haste to part with any of your daughters,” replied Mrs. Cunningham. “ But Julia is only twenty, and I don’t wish any of them to marry before twenty- five; that’s young enough, in my opinion.” “ Well, dear, the hurry is this :—William. Russell is going to the South to commence a new’ business, and he is afraid of losing the treasure he covets. Mr. Graves proposed last evening, and was refused, and William, with a lover’s watchfulness, suspects the truth, and suspects, moreover, that yet another is ready, and that’s why, he told me this morning, he so urges the matter.” “ Well, I will not consent to his taking her aw r ay, while he is uncertain as to his own success, and permanent establishment. Let him try it a year, and then there will be a better certainty for her.” “ No doubt there would,” replied his wife ; “I think you are very right; but you prefer William Russell, do you not, to any of her admirers?” “ Yes, I cer¬ tainly do. William has struggled with the w r orld, and know r s wdiat it is; has long provided for a mother and sisters, even before his prodigal father was taken away, and I regard his character as so fixed, that I would sooner trust my child to his care than to any other’s. Yet I have never seen a man I think worthy of Julia!” “ Nor ever would,” said his wife, smiling, “ should you live a hundred years ! and, indeed, I do not know how r we shall do wuthout her. Sarah, and Emma, and all are good girls, but they are not Julia.” Just so thought William Russell, as most reluctantly A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. 159 he subscribed to Mr. Cunningham’s condition, and wended his way without the companion he had hoped w'ould render it interesting. But the year, like other years, rolled its steady round, and was gathered to its progenitors beyond the flood ; and the stated time had come, and a few, but valued friends, assembled at Mr. Cunningham’s mansion to celebrate the happy day. Strange, that so many tears should fall upon a happy day ! strange, that so many serious faces should be seen in that cheerful home upon a happy day ! The parents looked grave, and even sad—the bright, gay Sarah drenched her blonde with tears as the ceremony proceeded, and even the little ones felt that there was something in the scene more solemn than they could penetrate, as the vow was spoken, to be faithful, loving until death. Julia had struggled nobly to preserve the usual composure of her man¬ ner—had kept down the choking heart, while her mo¬ ther and sisters sobbed farewell; but on the bosom of her father she wept so long and passionately, that the bridegroom playfully remonstrated, and with gentle force urged her to the carriage which was to convey them away. Strange anomaly of human nature ! As the rapid movement hid the gaze of loving faces from her view, she felt with the husband for whom she had chosen to leave all sitting by her side, almost desolate The parents of Julia Cunningham had concurred in her choice, because they believed that the fine per¬ son and engaging manners of Russell were united to o o o a character beyond the power of circumstances to change; and every possible support had been given 160 A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. to this opinion, in all the years that he had mingled as a man among his fellows. The fact of having a mother and sisters depending on his exertions, had poised the natural buoyancy of his temperament with thoughtfulness and consideration : and straitened cir¬ cumstances had rendered it necessary to deny himself the indulgence of society. Now, his position was greatly altered. His mother had been removed by death—his sisters well provided for by opulent hus¬ bands—his business was rapidly increasing, and with no wants to provide for but his young wife’s with her domestic habits, William felt that his burden was a light one. The society into which they were thrown was a hospitable, and rather convivial one, and in the admiration his beautiful and intelligent Julia excited, the husband experienced a new source of delight, and felt little inclined to limit any indulgence from which she might derive gratification. And thus are the avenues to temptation thrown open! In the hours of ease and indulgence, in the garb of brightness and beauty, the bosom’s foe assails us, and well for those who waken to resistance, before the ruin is complete! Strong in the undoubting con¬ fidence of youth, Julia feared no evil; and three years had flown away so pleasantly, she scarcely ■ knew them gone. Each year she had passed a few weeks under the paternal roof, and the rejoicing pa¬ rents united in the belief, that their daughter’s wed- ded life was all that could be desired. A change w r as, however, approaching! and William Russell informed nis wife, that the tide was setting against him. Busi A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE 161 ness falling off, losses here and there, had made a serious diminution in their income, and he thought they would try to live more economically. u Cer¬ tainly,” said Julia, readily, “ I remember well how papa retrenched his family expenses, and it all came right again; and he is so prosperous now.” “But I am sorry you should go over again for me,” said the husband in a dissatisfied tone, “ the painful lessons of your youth.” “ They were not painful,” replied Julia, cheerfully ; “ I never was happier in all my life, than when, by some alteration or contrivance, I saved papa a new expense.” “I am no admirer of small savings,” said William, with a faint smile. “ Then suppose we save a large sum, right out,” returned Julia ani¬ matedly. “If we decline Judge Hastings’s party to night, and attend no more large ones this fall, we shall not need to give our own annual entertainment in the winter, and that will save a heap of money, and a world of trouble.” “ Oh, that is looking too far ahead; besides, we must go to-night, for I am anxious to see a friend whom I promised to meet there; it will do us good, too, Julia; I want cheering up.” Julia thought she had never seen her husband less cheerful, than when they returned from the brilliant festivity. He seemed so flushed, so feverish and weary, and she wished—she scarcely knew why—that he would at¬ tend no more parties. A few days after this, a letter was received by Mr. Russell, imparting the melan¬ choly intelligence of the very sudden death of Mrs. Cunningham. He broke the news to Julia as ten¬ derly as possible, and her father wrote almost immedi- 162 A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. ately, entreating her to come to him, for some time, m this hour of his desolation. “ And how long will you stay?’’ said William, as Julia completed her mournful preparation for the journey. “ I ought to remain, dear William, at least three months,” she re¬ plied. “ They will need me now so much !” “ Three months is a long time,” said the husband, “ but I must try to do without you !” When Julia returned, she found things getting worse rather than better, with her husband; and notwithstanding she practised every possible self-denial for herself, and extended it to their household in every way that he would permit, the cloud gathered strength rather than dispersed. There was an alteration in him, too, which occasioned her deep anxiety. So uncertain and fitful in spirits, so careless in management, so easily irritated. She could not understand it, and she sought the reason in the trials of his business, in the loss of quiet, in the failure of health, in every cause but the right one. Some days passed on, and a card of invitation was sent, for another gay party. Julia handed it to her husband, and asked if he would write an apology. “ Why not go?” he said, inquiringly. “ My black dress is a sufficient excuse, if I needed one,” she re¬ plied, with a tear, “but I do not; Mrs. Everett will not expect me .” “Well, I will look in a little while, perhaps,” said William, “and I can explain.” The evening came, and, saying he would return early, as she did not accompany him, W 7 illiam Rus¬ sell left his wife to a solitary evening. While she sat plying her needle, her thoughts wandered to her # A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. Ifi3 youthful home, her doating father, her affectionate sisters; and while she paid a new tribute of grief to the memory of the beloved mother so lately taken from her, she felt that that home, even now, in its bereaved hour, possessed the elements of a quiet comfort, of which her own was destitute. The needle became a dan¬ gerous companion, and she took up a book; but it failed to rivet her attention. She looked at her watch: it was past eleven, and she became uneasy and appre¬ hensive. Twelve, one, and two followed slowly, and she walked the floor to still the feverish beating of her heart. “ He would not be so late at the Everetts : something has happened : what, oh, what can it be!” A t length came three o’clock, and with it came the footstep it was always joy to hear. But it was not like his, it was so heavy, so uncertain. She paused a moment in dreadful doubt, and then sprang to meet him. He staggered past her, and flung himself into a chair. She followed him, and clasping his arm wildly, almost shrieked, “ Tell me, William Russell, tell me, husband, what is the matter ?” “ Leave me, woman,” he cried, in a voice of thunder, with a brow black as the midnight sky; “isn’t there enough the matter, without being tormented with your foolish questions?” and flinging off his coat, he gained the bed, and throwing himself down, was soon in a stu- pified slumber, unconscious that the tears of his w r ife were pouring on his face like rain. Well was it for Julia Russell that she had obeyed the wise man’s in¬ junction, to “ Remember her Creator in the days of her youth/’ else where could her crushed and broken 12 164 A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE heart, cast off by its dearest earthly refuge, have made its appeal? Well was it for her, in this hour of abandonment by him she had so loved and trusted, that she could still stay herself on “ the everlasting arm.” In prayers and tears poor Julia passed that night, and when the morning dawned, and her wretched husband returned to consciousness, the swollen eye and the pale cheek awoke his tenderness and his remorse. In deep humility he acknowledged all his fatal indulgences, and promised—ah ! the spi¬ der’s thread on which that promise hung—to give up all, if his injured wife would restore him her confi¬ dence and love. And she! did she turn scornfully away, with the assurance that she could not link her¬ self to degradation ? Ah, no ! for the degraded was precious, even as her own soul. In broken tones, she prayed him to remember his weakness, that he might gather strength to resist the enticing cup; begged him to settle his affairs, that they might no longer urge him to temptation : that if a crust alone was left, she would eat it cheerfully with him, and toil with all her powers for their support, so that he would be again her blessed William Russell. Years have passed since then, and Mr. Russell, so influenced, so guarded, never became a confirmed ine¬ briate ; yet a moral strength is wanting to break for ever the fatal snare; and could you see Julia Cun¬ ningham now, my fair young reader—her finely rounded form so thin and wasted; her brilliant eyes shaded with unceasing anxiety; her step tremulous with sad foreboding when absence is too lengthened, A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE. 165 you would shrink with dread when you behold the beloved of your hea$jt lift to his lips a single, glass of wine. The foregoing tale illustrates the immense import¬ ance of guarding against the small beginnings of in¬ temperance. From indulgence in a single glass of wine, many weak-minded persons have been led on, step by step, to their ruin. We knew one gentleman of large fortune, who thus acquired so strong a taste for Champaigne wine, that he actually indulged in solitary drinking of this noxious beverage until it killed him. JOHN HINCHLEY. t> 4 Bt Mbs. C. M. Kirkland. The artist has designed, under this head, a scene which actually passed in our own neighbourhood, at the West. As this is a mere coincidence—no word having been said of our floating recollections of the occasion—we are disposed to make the picture the ground of a little homily we would like to deliver; premising, however, that we are far from believing such “steps” more characteristic of the West than of the East. Like circumstances will assuredly pro¬ duce similar results every where. We see in the engraving four men amusing them- selves in a barn ; two at cards, (high-low-jack, we may suppose,) another watching the game, and the fourth raising to his lips a keg or canteen, which we may take leave to fear does not contain any thing so inno¬ cent as Croton water. Through the open half door we observe a church; and, upon the winding path¬ way which leads to the sacred edifice, a funeral pro¬ cession. This scene was imagined and conceived by the artist solely on the strength of his own knowledge ( 167 ) ’ * • 1 V * l ' i : ■■•• \ . » ■ , ■;:' ■* ' ' . JOHN HINCHLE Y. 169 and observation of human life in general, and as the first of a series expressive of the downward course of him who begins by neglecting duty for amusement and indulgence; yet it is, as we said before, an ac¬ tual transcript of reality; and we must give our re collections of this one scene in advance of the recitals which are to be illustrated by the series of pictures. There was a youth in a certain Western district, the son of very strict parents, who had brought him up in what they certainly intended should be, “ the nur¬ ture and admonition of the Lord.” They sent him to school every winter, and charged the master not to spare the rod if it was needed to make him a good boy; they made him attend Sabbath-school with un¬ erring punctuality, remember every sermon’s text, and commit to memory a certain portion of Scripture every Sunday. While he was quite young, they al¬ lowed him to play, somewhat like other boys; but when he began to call himself a young man, he found his wish for amusement continually thwarted by his father, whose notions grew more and more rigid with the advance of years, and who was, moreover, under influences which led him to the opinion that all gaiety is sinful. Now, we must pause ere we proceed, to enter a caveat against the imputation that we are inimical to a serious life. It is our heartfelt opinion that there is no other happy life ; that no one has yet tasted happi¬ ness who doubts this, or has not tried it. What we would hint is, that this life is an inward life, and that to force the outward appearance of it while the heart 170 JOHN HINCHLEY. is unconvinced, is the way to make hypocrites and haters of all good things. It is a contradiction to the whole philosophy of human nature, to suppose that virtue will be the result of force. Even the Almighty Ruler has left the choice to our free will, giving us at the same time the knowledge of good and evil. It is the sacred duty of parents to guard their children from habits which contravene the laws of God; but when they set up severe and arbitrary rules of their own in addition, they run the risk of such conse¬ quences as I am about to describe. John Hinchley w r as a well-disposed boy, of consi¬ derable quickness of intellect; ruddy, bright-eyed, handsome, and well-developed. He was a favourite in the neighbourhood, and always invited to the husking, the quilting, the raising, in short, all rustic merry-makings. Contrary to custom, his father often restrained him from accepting these invitations, in¬ sisting upon his accomplishing some piece of work which was unfinished, and lecturing him severely upon the feelings which he sometimes exhibited when thus thwarted. Now John was a dutiful son, thus far, and particularly fond of his mother, who, though very strict, was milder than her husband and would sometimes intercede, on occasions when the old maids objurgations bore too hard upon the son. John was sometimes tempted to deceive both father and mother; but to his credit be it spoken, his conscience punished him so severely for this, that he found such indulg¬ ences cost more than they came to; and his thoughts JOHN H INC II LEY. 171 turned rather to the best and earliest means of getting rid of parental restraint altogether. When he was about nineteen, a blacksmith, who lived at some distance, made him an offer of business, which his father thought too advantageous to be re¬ jected, and John was sent to a new field of labour, with many earnest charges as to his walk and conversa¬ tion. But there was a sad discrepancy between the father’s exhortations and denunciations, and the cir¬ cumstances of the case; and John knew this. He knew that his father was perfectly well aware that the neighbourhood to which he was going was a notedly vicious one, and that love of gain was the sole inducement in sending him. This inconsistency, alas! how T common a one w T ith the loudest talkers about morals ! completely neutralized the effect of the solemn words with which old Hinchley dismissed his son; and, although the mother’s tears were more effectual, she was weak in judgment, and so had not commanded the respect of her children as much as she had won their love. The blacksmith with whom John w'as to live, was a man of smooth outside, so smooth, indeed, that the young man, whose brain had been almost turned by the prospect of the boundless liberty for which he had been sighing, feared at first that he had fallen into hands no less rigid than his father’s, spite of the reputation of the place, which was called “Hell-gate” by the whole neighbourhood. But it w r as not long be¬ fore, happening to go into the shop at a very early hour, he found his employer and another man, with 172 JOHN HINCHLEY. haggard, anxious faces, and eyes bloodshot and fierce with passion, liquor, and want of sleep, playing cards on a block in one corner, while “old Hills,” and one or two others who had been looking on, were lying drunk in various positions on the earthen floor. Dis¬ guise was out of the question ; the blacksmith was not so much intoxicated as not to perceive that excuses would be worse than useless; so he braved it out, and invited John to “join in the fun.” John did not join — the7i. From this time the seduction of the unfortunate young man became a settled object with the black¬ smith and his companions; and to make his chance the worse, it so happened that old Hills—the most abandoned drunkard in the whole place—had a pretty daughter, whose sad and downcast eye interested John Hinchley far more than the gayer glances of her com¬ panions. He became a familiar visiter at her father’s, and soon found pity change to love as he witnessed the sufferings of the young woman, who was really exemplary, as if incited by the vices of those around to practise the industry, self-denial, and reserve which were so miserably deficient at “ Hell-gate.” It was not long before John and Mary were “ pro¬ mised,” as they say in the country ; and dire was the wrath of John’s father at the news. He recalled his son, but it w’as too late. Home rule was over; new associations had been formed; love exerted its all powerful sway; and in spite of the tears of the wretched mother, John Hinchley quarrelled with his father, and left the house under his curse, to return JOHN HINCHLEY. 173 to Mary and liberty. Before be was of age be had married Mary Hills, and become a partner of the dis¬ solute blacksmith, who held out the only chance of living at all, though at the expense of all that makes life worth having. The young couple were really attached, and had good qualities enough to have made their affection serve for a whole life’s quiet happiness, if the bosom talisman of fixed principle had not been wanting. But children came—means were scanty—home was uncomfortable—Mary became cross under penury and ill-health, while John’s wicked companions seem¬ ed jolly, and declared that they took the world very easy. The blacksmith was one of those sots who do their work well, and who manage, by the aid of an iron constitution, to keep up business and vice to¬ gether, for a time, deceiving both themselves and others as to the final result. John imitated his part¬ ner, but with inferior success. His health became dis¬ ordered ; his hand was unsteady; his work did not please; high words often arose between him and the more robust sinner. Friendship, cemented only by evil propensities, is fleeting as dew; and discord added her fell torch to the remains of poor John’s happiness. Behold him now the fit companion of his father-in- law—him ! who had chosen Mary from all the world, because he pitied the wretchedness and loved the vir¬ tues of the drunkard’s daughter! From one degree of neglect to another—from unkind words to absolute desertion—from finding the children a plague, to the s 174 JOHN HINCKLEY. loss of even instinctive affection for them'—he fell lower and lower; until, while his eldest child was jn the death-agony, he could not be persuaded to quit his game of cards. She died—he played on. In vain did the neighbours persuade and shame him; he turned the adder’s deafness to their words. When % night came he drank deeper than usual, and slept, the deep, swinish sleep of inebriation, on the floor of the shop. The next day the funeral of his child pass¬ ed on its way to the burial-ground. There were John and his companions still at cards; there was old Hills at his potations; and while every body was crying shame upon them, they only clung the closer to the indulgences to which alone their now degraded na- tures looked for happiness. Happiness! oh profane estimate! fatuity inconceiv¬ able ! Guilt’s blunder, and the loudest laugh of hell! * Wretchedness dogged the steps of John Hinchley and his once lovely Mary; poverty came upon them, and “want like an armed man.” They have long ago ceased to take their place with others at meeting, or at the social gathering. Their children cannot go to school, for want of decent clothing; their dwelling is falling down for very misery. Man can do no¬ thing for them, since they have the art of turning even benevolence to poison. May God have mercy upon them, and upon all such! If we should be asked, in reference to our descrip¬ tion of John’s early training, how we would have had / JOHN H1NCHLEY. 175 it changed ; whether we think it better that the stern father should have allowed his son to join in amuse¬ ments that he disapproved, we reply—that while we believe it the bounden duty of parents to restrain their children from participation in whatever recrea¬ tions may seem to them likely to prove injurious, we are sure it is equally incumbent on them to provide for them those which are innocent. And again, while parents are inexcusable if they allow disobedience in their children, they sin deeply if they require this obedience in any other than the spirit of love. Stern¬ ness, want of sympathy, and too great rigor of habits at home, drive many a youth to vice, who might have been preserved by watchful love, the care which springs from devoted affection, and the cheerfulness which every young heart craves. Good humour, vivacity, sympathy, benevolence, are not the fruits of an ascetic life; and more especially is compulsory as¬ ceticism unfavourable to the cultivation of those ameni¬ ties on which so much of the comfort, happiness, and safety of life depends. The inconsistency which we notice in the conduct of John Hinchley’s father, is a fruitful source of evil in education. The parent who is strict to excess as to many little outward conformities with the world, will yet show himself to be the slave of mammon, or the victim of evil tempers, or the petty tyrant—behind the scenes. How much of the misconduct and un¬ happiness of young people is the direct fruit of a deficiency of virtue, or sincere effort at virtue in their parents, is an awful thought for many of us. * 176 JOHN HINCHLEY. Let us never imagine that any outward strictness can atone for the want of that deep-seated, and operative goodness, which alone has the promise of Heaven’s blessing upon its efforts, its sacrifices, and its hopes. We should always be ready to strengthen the in fluence of precept by the force of example. The parent, while pointing the way to Heaven, should always evince a readiness to walk in the narrow path that leads to eternal life. THE LAST INTERVIEW. By D. Strooz, Jr. One afternoon, early in the autumn of 1845, a little boy knocked at the door of an humble dwelling, in one of the districts of Philadelphia. “ Is Mrs. Arnold in?” he inquired of the individual who answered his summons. “ She is in her room,” was the reply; and the boy was shown into it. A tall, sickly-looking woman ( 177 ) ) 178 THE LAST INTERVIEW. arose to meet him. He presented her with a piece of paper, awkwardly folded, and soiled with finger-marks and oil. She ran her eye hastily over it, and then, pausing for a moment, told the boy that she could not come. As he retired, she sat dowq by a table, and, resting her head on her hand, appeared to relapse into a train of sad thoughts which the boy’s entrance had interrupted. Ten minutes had scarcely.elapsed, before another and heavier rap announced a second messenger. A man entered, and inquired for Mrs. Arnold. “ I am Mrs. Arnold,” answered the woman. “ Madam,” said the man. “ let me entreat you, for God’s sake, to visit the individual who is called your husband. He has not two hours to live, and during his sane moments, he calls loudly on your name, and inquires when you will come. I fear his death will be an awful one if he does not see you.” “ I cannot come,” the woman replied in a husky voice. “ Let me entreat you,” the stranger persisted. “ I know not what may be between your husband and yourself, but do not refuse this request which I am convinced will be his last. When the fit is on him, he talks only of you, and of the hours of happiness you once passed together Do not refuse him this small comfort in death’s agonies.” Mrs. Arnold paused. There was, in her features, the hardened expression which years of grief some¬ times imparts even to the countenance of woman. Yet beneath this might be seen an occasional gleam THE LAST INTERVIEW. 179 of finer feeling, telling that the soul had not lost all its sensitiveness for the woes of others. The stran¬ ger noticed the mental conflict, and renewed his ex¬ hortation. “ Did he call me by name?” asked Mrs. Arnold. “He did,” replied the man. “ He denounced his former life as the cause of all your misery, and spoke of former times spent with you, in a manner that drew , a sigh from every heart. Shall I tell him you are coming ?” ° * “Yes,” said Mrs. Arnold. “I had thought never again to see him ; but I will go this once.” The man bowed, and departed; and, as the door was heard closing upon him, a feeling, to which the banished wife had long been a stranger, came upon her. A chord strung in other days, but long since neglected, had suddenly awoke to its former melody. She seemed to move in the past—to hear the tones of love, and see the smiles which were around her when her children first learned to lisp her name, and her husband was not a drunkard. Now she was hastening to the last interview with the only one of her kindred that still remained to her. The feeling of estrangement, which,.as she once supposed, had stifled every other feeling, gave way in a moment to an intense desire to see her husband. Seizing the note, she hastily glanced at the di¬ rection, and hurried into the street. After winding her way along several narrow streets, the abodes of wretchedness and crime, she stopped before a small house, and, descending three steps, opened a door 13 180 THE LAST INTERVIEW. which led into a gloomy and naked basement room It was destitute of furniture, unless we dignify by that name a three legged stool, with the back broken off, a rickety table, and some straw beds. Three or four persons were moving about the room; and, although the sun had not set, a candle was burning on the window-ledge. Death was busy in this dreary abode. Upon some mattrasses in a corner, lay the once gay Albert Arnold, writhing in the horrors of delirium tremens. The first sounds heard by the wife on entering, were the moans of her husband. During thre§ years she had lived estranged from him, neither hearing nor seeing him. There was something fearful in the accents with which the reconciliation had begun. Pale with anxiety and terror, she paused at the door, holding the latch in her hand. A man approached. “Are you Mrs. Arnold ?” She replied in the affirmative. “ You have come to speak with your husband ?” She nodded assent. “ It is too late. Look at him.” The woman turned in the direction indicated. A poor maniac, tossing his hands, rolling from side to side, and raving in a voice already rendered hoarse by the touch of death. The candle shed sufficient light upon his face, to render visible the eyes, bloodshot, wide open, and staring; the muscles hardened to the rigidity of iron, the distorted features, the teeth, shining madman-like from between the severed lips. Approaching, she kneeled beside him, but had no THE LAST INTERVIEW. 181 words suited to the intensity of feeling which such a scene inspires. “ Mr. Arnold,” said the nurse, kneeling beside the wife. He ceased raving, and turned his head with a cold simple stare, in the direction of the sound. “Your wife is here,” continued the woman, hoping that some word connected with her name, might illumine his mind with a ray of reason. But in his countenance remained the same cold expression; while his hand moved rapidly and ceaselessly, over his wretched bed. “ Speak to him yourself,” said the nurse. “Albert,” whispered the wife, bending her head to¬ wards his, “ Have you forgotten your own Annie— Annie Campbell ?” Suddenly he turned his head towards her, and pressed together his parched lips, hard and rapidly. Reason seemed struggling to regain her seat. But the transient emotion departed, the eye and the lips resumed their fixedness, and he stared again, the ter¬ rible stare of the maniac, more fearful from its silence than his former ravings. “ He cannot hear you,” said the nurse. “ Oh, it is dreadful,” sobbed the poor wife as she buried her face in her hands. “Albert, Albert, speak to me,” she continued lean¬ ing over him. “ Do not die in this horrible manner.” “ He will never speak with you again,” said the nurse. “ Ha! ha! ha!” shouted the dying man, with a voice, that, made every one shudder. “ Ha! ha! ha ! ha! I remember her well, Annie Campbell, Annie Campbell, 182 THE LAST INTERVIEW my own dear Annie. Oh yes, oh yes—I will sing the song she used to sing to me—listen, she is sing- irg now. Oh enchanting/’ he continued clasping his hands, with convulsive energy. “ But she is dead, gone—she died a raving maniac—I called her, and she would not come to see me—cruel Annie—she died alone. All flesh is as grass. She died alone.” “ Speak to him again,” said the nurse. The wife whispered her name in his ear. “ She died alone,—alone !” and his voice hung on the word, as the departing soul to life. “We sailed on the river at night—so still and beautiful—her song, her song. There were bright eyes beaming on me but I saw only Annie’s. The moon too and the stars, they were beaming. I see them, shining far down, in the deep water. It is too much—too lovely. See the green trees by the river’s bank, and the glassy waves, sparkling—-the moonlight is chasing them along. The sun is not there. He went down long O O ago, among the dead people. Annie is gone too. She would not come to me when I sent for her. I hear her singing, but I’ll never see her again. She died alone.” The maniac rolled on his side, and clenching his hands tightly, became again silent. One of the men came near, and bathed his head with cold water. There was a long pause, interrupted only by the whispers of the attendants, the moans of the dying man, or the sobs of his wife. A student of medicine, who was in the room, stooped down and felt his pulse. To Mrs. Arnold’s eager inquiry he shook his head; THE LAST INTERVIEW. 183 and when further pressed, he replied that he was failing fast “And must he die thus?” said the wife. , “ The main disease has been broken,” the student replied, “ his case is now one of ordinary insanity. Death is approaching; but a gleam of reason may still illume his last moments.” Scarcely was this sentence uttered, when the ma¬ niac sprung suddenly to a sitting posture. His eyes glared as though starting from their sockets. “I have been there,” he said, in a tone whose calm¬ ness was terrible. “ It was horrible, horrible.” “Where have you been?” asked the student, hu¬ mouring his madness. “To the regions of woe,” continued the maniac, while his frame shuddered with the remembrance of the recent vision; and then, he poured forth words wild and blasphemous, as if they had actually been learned in the abodes of despair. Gradually, however, he grew calmer, and at length sunk upon his bed exhausted- This painful scene was drawing to a close. For more than an hour the wife had endured it; and now some straggling rays of the setting sun, gleaming through the window, fell upon her husband’s face, and showed the change which had been wrought there, even in that short time. Amid all the inexpli¬ cable phases of that mysterious, mental wandering which we call insanity, nothing is more wonderful than the apparently trivial manner, in which its spell is frequently broken, and reason restored. A word 184 THE LAST INTERVIEW. —a look—the ticking of a clock, or the chirp of a cricket, has restored those, over whom doctors knit their brows and looked wise in vain. Was there that, in the solitary sunbeam, which could harmonize the deranged faculties of this poor maniac? It seemed so; for as it played warmly on his cheek, he raised his eyes suddenly towards it, and appeared to regain some recollection, bright as itself. His fixed eyelids relaxed and partially closed, his lips lost their con¬ traction, and his face its rigidity. Reason was re¬ stored. “ He is sensible,” said the student. Every one started. The miserable wife once more gazed upon her husband; and, for the first time, since many a weary month had elapsed, their glances met. A long¬ ing gaze, and the quivering of his lip, told that she was recognized, but there was no welcome of the voice. Silence, which may not be broken this side the grave, had sealed his lips. Bending over him, she exclaimed, in a voice deepened by the solemnity of the scene around— “ Albert! do you know me ?” A faint smile illumined his countenance, and his voice struggled for utterance. Even these poor marks of recognition were precious .in a last interview. “Will you speak to me?” she continued, her anxiety increasing as death came nearer. There was no answer—only the smile hovering around the lips. That, too, ceased at last, and even the tones of the wife, begging her husband’s farewell, were hushed. The long pause that succeeded was broken by a deep THE LAST INTERVIEW. 185 groan from the dying man. Stretching himself to his full length, he rolled his eyes upward, and remained motionless. The student spoke first. “ He is dead,” said he. The nurse reached the candle from the window¬ sill. Its light, falling upon his features, showed too truly that death had indeed laid his hand there. She touched his breast, but the fluttering of the heart had ceased. ' “ Poor man !” said the nurse to Mrs. Arnold. “ He had still some tender feelings left. He talked night and day of you, whom he called his murdered Annie. I wish the rumseller had but witnessed his death.” The wife, still kneeling beside him, held one of her hands over his brow, while with the other she covered her own. “ Oh !” she exclaimed at intervals, while tears came to her eyes, “did I think, when we first met, that our last interview would be like this!” The student stood talking with the other men “ See,” he said to one of them, “the doings of Rum!” THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. From the Dublin University Magazine. About the year 17 —, having been appointed to the living of C-h, I rented a small house in the town which bears the same name. One morning, in the month of November, I was awakened before my usual time by my servant, who bustled into my bed-room for the purpose of announcing a sick call. As the Catholic church holds her last rites to be totally indis¬ pensable to the safety of the departing sinner, no con¬ scientious clergyman can afford a moment’s unneces¬ sary delay; and in little more than five minutes I stood, ready cloaked and booted for the road, in the small front parlour, in which the messenger, who was to act as my guide, awaited my coming. I found a poor little girl, crying piteously, near the door, and, after some slight difficulty, I ascertained that her fa¬ ther was either dead, or just dying. “ And what may be your father’s name, my poor child ?” said I. She held down her head as if ashamed. I repeated the question, and the wretched little crea¬ ture burst into a flood of tears still more bitter than she had shed before. At length, almost provoked by ( 186 ) THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 187 conduct which appeared to me so unreasonable, I be¬ gan to lose patience, spite of the pity which I could not help feeling towards her; and I said, rather harshly, “ If you will not tell me the name of the per¬ son to whom you would lead me, your silence can arise from no good motive, and I might be justified in refusing to go with you at all.” “ Oh! don’t say that, don’t say that,” cried she. Oh, sir ! it was that I was afeard of, when I wmuld not tell you : I was afeard when you heard his name you would not come with me; but it is no use hidin’ it now : it’s Pat Connell, the carpenter, your honour.” She looked in my face with the most earnest anxiety, as if her very existence depended upon what she should read there; hut I relieved her at once. The name, indeed, w^as most unpleasantly familiar to me; but, however fruitless my visits and advice might have been at another time, the present w T as too fearful an occasion to suffer my doubts of their utility as my reluctance to re-attempting what appeared a hopeless task, to w T eigh even against the lightest chance, that a consciousness of his imminent danger might produce in him a more docile and tractable disposition. Ac¬ cordingly, I told the child to lead the way, and fol¬ lowed her in silence. She hurried rapidly through the long narrow street which forms the great thorough¬ fare of the town. The darkness of the hour, rendered still deeper by the close approach of the old-fashioned houses, which lowered in tall obscurity on either side of the way; the damp, dreary chill which renders the advance of morning peculiarly cheerless, combined 188 the drunkard’s dream. with the object of my walk—to visit the deathbed of a presumptuous sinner, to endeavour, almost against my own conviction, to infuse a hope into the heart of a dying reprobate, a drunkard, but too probably perish¬ ing under the consequences of some mad fit of intoxi¬ cation ; all these circumstances united, served to en¬ hance the gloom and solemnity of my feelings, as I silently followed my little guide, who, with quick steps, traversed the uneven pavement of the main street. After a walk of about five minutes, she turned off into a narrow lane, of that obscure and comfortless class which are to be found in almost all small old- fashioned towns—chill, without ventilation, reeking with all manner of offensive efiluviae, dingy, smoky, sickly, and pent-up buildings, frequently not only in a wretched, but in a dangerous condition. “ Your father has changed his abode since I last visited him, and, I am afraid, much for the worse,” said I. “ Indeed he has, sir; but we must not complain,” replied she; “ we have to thank God that we have lodging and food, though it’s poor enough, it is, your honour.” “Poor child!” thought I; “how many an older head might learn wisdom from thee! how many a luxurious philosopher, who is skilled to preach but not to suffer, might not thy patient words put to the blush !” The manner and language of this child were alike above her years and station; and, indeed, in all cases in which the cares and sorrows of life have antici- THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 189 pated their usual date, and have fallen, as they some¬ times do, with melancholy prematurity to the lot of childhood, I have observed the result to prove uni¬ formly the same. A young mind, to which joy and indulgence have been strangers, and to which suffer¬ ing and self-denial have been familiarized from the first, acquires a solidity and an elevation which no other discipline could have bestowed, and which, in the present case, communicated a striking but mourn¬ ful peculiarity to the manners—even to the voice of the child. We paused before a narrow, crazy door, which she opened by means of a latch, and we forth¬ with began to ascend the steep and broken stairs, which led upwards to the sick man’s room. As we mounted flight after flight towards the garret floor, I heard, more and more distinctly, the hurried talking of many voices. I could also distinguish the low sob¬ bing of a female. On arriving upon the uppermost lobby, these sounds became fully audible. “ This way, your honour,” said my little conduc¬ tress, at the same time pushing open a door of patched and half-rotten plank, she admitted me into the squalid chamber of death and misery. But one candle, held in the fingers of a seared and haggard-looking child, was burning in the room, and that so dim that all was twilight or darkness except within its immediate in¬ fluence. The general obscurity, however, served to throw into prominent and startling relief the death¬ bed and its occupant. The light was nearly approxi¬ mated to, and fell with horrible clearness upon, the blue and swollen features of the drunkard. I did not 190 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. think it possible that a human countenance could look so terrific. The lips were black, and drawn apart; the teeth were firmly set; the eyes a little unclosed, and nothing but the whites appearing; every feature was fixed and livid, and the whole face wore a ghastly and rigid expression of despairing terror, such as I never saw equalled. His hands were crossed upon his breast, and firmly clenched ; while, as if to add to the corpse-like effect of the whole, some white cloths, dip¬ ped in water, were wound about the forehead and temples. As soon as I could remove my eyes from this horrible spectacle, I observed my friend Dr. D—, one of the most humane of a humane profession, stand¬ ing by the bed-side. He had been attempting, but un¬ successfully, to bleed the patient, and had now ap¬ plied his finger to the pulse. “ Is there any hope?” I inquired in a whisper. A shake of the head was the reply. There was a pause while he continued to hold the w~rist; but he waited in vain for the throb of life; it was not there; and when he let go the hand, it fell stiffly back into its former position upon the other. “ The man is dead,” said the physician, as he turned from the bed where the terrible figure lay. “Dead!” thought I, scarcely venturing to look upon the tremendous and revolting spectacle : “dead! without an hour for repentance—even a moment for reflection! Dead, without the rites which even the best should have! Is there hope for him ?” The glaring eyeball, the grinning mouth, the distorted brow, that unutterable look in which a painter would 191 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM have sought to embody the fixed despair of the nether¬ most hell—these were my answer. The poor wife, sat at a little distance, crying as if her heart wrnuld break: the younger children clus¬ tered round the bed, looking, with wondering cu¬ riosity, upon the form of death, never seen before. When the first tumult of uncontrollable sorrow had passed away, availing myself of the solemnity and im¬ pressiveness of the scene, I desired the heart-stricken family to accompany me in prayer; and all knelt down, while I solemnly and fervently repeated some of those prayers which appeared most applicable to the occa¬ sion. I employed myself thus in a manner which, I trusted, was not unprofitable, at least to the living, for about ten minutes; and having accomplished my task, I was the first to arise. I looked upon the poor, sob¬ bing, helpless creatures who knelt so humbly around me, and my heart bled for them. With a natural transition, I turned my eyes from them to the bed in which the body lay; and, great God! what was the revulsion, the horror which I experienced, on seeing the corpse-like, terrific thing seated half upright be¬ fore me. The white cloths which had been wound round the head, had now partly slipped from their position, and were hanging in grotesque festoons about the face and shoulders, while the distorted eyes leered from amid them— “ A sight to dream of, not to tell.” I stood actually riveted to the spot. The figure nod ded its head, and lifted its arm, I thought, with a me- 192 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. nacing gesture. A thousand confused and horrible thoughts at once rushed upon my mind. I had often read that the body of a presumptuous sinner, who, during life, had been the willing creature of every satanic impulse, after the human tenant had deserted it, had been known to become the horrible sport of demoniac possession. I was roused from the stupefac¬ tion of terror in which I stood, by the piercing scream of the mother, who now, for the first time, perceived the change which had taken place. She rushed to¬ wards the bed; but, stunned by the shock, and over¬ come by the conflict of violent emotions, before she reached it she fell prostrate upon the floor. I am per¬ fectly convinced, that had I not been startled from the torpidity of horror, in which I was bound, by some powerful and arousing stimulant, I should have gazed upon this unearthly apparition until I had fairly lost my senses. As it was, however, the spell was broken; superstition gave way to reason : the man, whom all believed to have been actually dead, was living. Dr. D- was instantly standing by the bedside, and, upon examination, he found that a sudden and copious flow of blood had taken place from the wound which the lancet had left, and this, no doubt, had effected his sudden, and almost preternatural restoration to an existence from which all thought he had been for ever removed. The man was still speechless, but he seemed to understand the physician when he forbid his re¬ peating the painful and fruitless attempts which he made to articulate; and he at once resigned himself quietly into his hands. 1 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 193 0 I left the patient with leeches upon his temples, and bleeding freely, apparently with little of the drow¬ siness which accompanies apoplexy; indeed, Dr. D-told me that he had never before witnessed a seizure which seemed to combine the symptoms of so many kinds, and yet which belonged to none of the recognized classes; it certainly was not apoplexy, catalepsy, nor delirium tremens , and yet it seemed, in some degree, to partake of the properties of all. It was strange, but stranger things are coming. During two or three days Dr. D-would not al¬ low his patient to converse in a manner which could excite or exhaust him, with any one; he sufFered him merely, as briefly as possible, to express his imme¬ diate wants, and it was not until the fourth day after my early visit, the particulars of which I have just detailed, that it was thought expedient that I should see him, and then only because it appeared that his extreme importunity and impatience were likely to re¬ tard his recovery more than the mere exhaustion at¬ tendant upon a short conversation could possibly do; perhaps, too, my friend entertained some hope that if, by holy confession his patient’s bosom were eased of the perilous stuff, which, no doubt, oppressed it, his recovery would be more assured and rapid. It was, then, as I have said, upon the fourth day after my first professional call, that I found myself once more in the drearv chamber of want and sickness. The man was in »/ bed, and appeared low and restless. On my entering the room he raised himself in the bed, and muttered twice or thrice, “ Thank God ! thank God !” I signed 194 the drunkard’s dream. to those of his family who stood by, to leave the room, and took a chair beside the bed. So soon as we were alone he said, rather doggedly, “ There’s no use now in telling me of the sinfulness of bad ways; I know it all; I know where they lead to; I have seen every thing about it with my own eyesight, as plain as I see you.” He rolled himself in the bed, as if to hide his face in the clothes, and then suddenly raising himself, he ex¬ claimed, with startling vehemence, “ Look, sir, there is no use in mincing the matter ; I’m blasted with the fires of hell; I have been in hell; what do you think of that ?—in hell! I’m lost for ever ! I have not a chance! I am damned already—damned—damned— The end of this sentence he actually shouted ; his ve¬ hemence was perfectly terrific; he threw himself back, and laughed and sobbed hysterically. I poured some water into a tea-cup, and gave it to him. After he had swallowed it, I told him if he had any thing to com¬ municate, to do so as briefly as he could, and in a man¬ ner as little agitating to himself as possible; threaten¬ ing at the same time, though I had no intention to do so, to leave him at once, in case he again gave way to such passionate excitement. “ It’s only foolishness,” he continued “ for me to try to thank you for coming to such a villain as myself at all; it’s no use for me to wish good to you; for such as I have no blessings to give.” I told him that I had but done my duty, and urged him to proceed to the matter which weighed upon his mind : he then spoke nearly as follows :— “ I came in drunk on Friday night last, and got to my 195 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. bed here, I don’t remember how; some time in the night, it seemed to me, I wakened, and feeling unaisy in myself, I got up out of the bed. I wanted the fresh air, but I would not make a noise to open the window, for fear I’d waken the crathurs. It was very dark, and throublesome to find the door; but at last I did get it, and I groped my way out, and went down as aisy as I could. I felt quite sober, and I counted the steps one after another, as I was going down, that I might not stumble at the bottom. When I came to the first land¬ ing-place—God be about us always! the floor of it sunk under me, and I went down, down, down, till the senses almost left me. I do not know how long I was falling, but it seemed to me a great while. When I came rightly to myself at last, I was sitting at a great table near the top of it; and I could not see the end of it, if it had any, it was so far off; and there were men beyond reckoning sitting down, all along by it, at each side, as far as I could see at all. I did not know at first what it was in the open air; but there was a close smothering feel in it, that was not natural, and there was a kind of light that my eyesight never saw before, red and unsteady, and I did not see for a long time where it was coming from, until I looked 'straight up, and then I saw that it came from great balls of blood-coloured fire, that were rolling high over head, with a sort of rushing, trembling sound, and I per¬ ceived that they shone on the ribs of a great roof of rock that was arched overhead, instead of the sky. When I seen this, scarce knowing what I did, I got up, and I said, ‘ I have no right to be here; I must 14 196 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM # go ;’ and the man that was sitting at my left hand only smiled, and said, ‘ sit down again ; you can never leave this place;’ and his voice was weaker than any child’s voice I ever heard, and when he was done speaking he smiled again. Then I spoke out very loud and bold, and I said, £ In the name of God let me out of this bad place.’ And there was a great man, that I did not see before, sitting at the end of the table that I was near, and he was taller than twelve men, and his face was very proud and terrible to look at, and he stood up and stretched out his hand before him; and w^hen he stood up all that were there, great and small, bowed down with a sighing sound, and a dread came on my heart, and he looked at me, and I could not speak. I felt I was his own to do what he liked with, for I knew at once who he was; and he said, ‘ if you pro¬ mise to return you may depart for a seasonand the voice he spoke with was terrible and mournful, and the echoes of it went rolling and swelling down the endless cave, and mixing with the trembling of the fire over head; so that when he sat down, there was a sound after him, all through the place, like the roaring of a furnace, and I said, with all the strength I had, ‘ I pro¬ mise to come back; in God’s name let me go;’ and with that I lost the sight and the hearing of all that vras there; and when my senses came to me again, I was sitting in the bed with the blood all over me, and you and the rest praying around the room.” Here he paused and wiped away the chill drops of horror which hung upon his forehead. I remained silent for sbme moments. The vision THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 197 which he had just described struck my imagination not a little; for this was long before Yathek and the “ Hall of Ebles” had delighted the world ; and the de¬ scription which he gave had, as I received it, all the attractions of novelty, beside the impressiveness which always belongs to the narration of an eye-witness, whe¬ ther in the body or in the spirit, of the scenes which he describes. There was something, too, in the stern horror with which the man related'these things, and in the incongruity of his description with the vulgarly received notions of the great place of punishment, and of its presiding spirit, which struck my mind with awe, almost with fear.—At length he said, with an ex¬ pression of horrible, imploring earnestness, which I shall never forget, “Well, sir, is there any hope; is there any chance at all ? or, is my soul pledged and promised away for ever? is it gone out of my power? must I go back to the place ?” In answering him I had no easy task to perform; for however clear might be my internal conviction of the groundlessness of his fears, and however strong my skepticism respecting the reality of what he had de¬ scribed, I nevertheless felt that his impression to the contrary, and his humility and terror resulting from it, might be made available as no mean engines in the work of his conversion from profligacy, and of his re¬ storation to decent habits, and to religious feeling. I therefore told him that he was to regard his dream rather in the light of a warning than in that of a pro¬ phecy ; that our salvation depended not upon the word or deed of a moment, but upon the habits of a life; that, 198 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. in fine, if he at once discarded his idle companions and evil habits, and firmly adhered to a sober, industrious, and religious course of life, the powers of darkness might claim his soul in vain; for that there were higher and firmer pledges than human tongue could utter, which promised salvation to him who should repent and lead a new life. I left him much comforted, and with a promise to return upon the next day. I did so, and found him much more cheerful, and without any remains of the dogged sullenness which I suppose had arisen from his despair. His promises of amendment were given in that tone of deliberate earnestness which belongs to deep and solemn determination; and it was with no small delight that I observed, after repeated visits, that his good resolutions, so far from failing, did but gather strength by time; and when I saw that man shake off the idle and debauched companions, whose society had for years formed alike his amusement and his ruin, and revive his long discarded habits of in¬ dustry and sobriety, I said within myself, “ there is something more in all this than the operation of an idle dream.” One day, some time after his perfect restoration to health, I was surprised on ascending the stairs for the purpose of visiting this man, to find him busily employed in nailing down some planks upon the land¬ ing-place through which, at the commencement of his mysterious vision, it seemed to him that he had sunk. I perceived at once that he was strengthening the floor with a view to securing himself against such a catas- THE DRUNKARDS DREAM. 199 trophe, and could scarcely forbear a smile, as I bid “ God bless his work.” He perceived my thoughts I suppose, for he imme¬ diately said— “ I can never pass over that floor without trembling. I’d leave this house if I could; but I can’t find another lodging in the town so cheap, and I’ll not take a better till I’ve paid off all my debts, please God; but I could not be aisy in my mind till I made it as safe as I could. You’ll hardly believe me, your honour, that while I’m working, maybe a mile away, my heart is in a flutter the whole way back, with the bare thoughts of the two little steps I have to walk upon this bit of a floor. So it’s no wonder, sir, I’d thry to make it sound and firm with any idle timber I have.” I applauded his resolution to pay off his debts, and the steadiness with which he pursued his plans of conscientious economy, and passed on. Many months elapsed, and still there appeared no alteration in his resolutions of amendment. He was a good workman, and with his better habits he reco¬ vered his former extensive and profitable employment. Every thing seemed to promise comfort and respecta¬ bility. I have little more to add, and that shall be told quickly. I had one evening met Pat Connell, as he returned from his work; and, as usual, after a mutual, and, on his side, respectful salutation, I spoke a few words of encouragement and approval. I left him in¬ dustrious, active, healthy—when next I saw him, not three days after, he was a corpse The circumstances which marked the event of his death, were somewhat / 200 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. strange—I might say fearful. The unfortunate man had accidentally met an early friend, just returned after a long absence, and, in a moment of excitement, forgetting every thing in the warmth of his joy, he yielded to his urgent invitation to accompany him into a public house, which lay close by the spot where the encounter had taken place. Connell, however, previously to entering the room, had announced his determination to take nothing more than the strictest temperance would warrant. But, oh ! who can de¬ scribe the inveterate tenacitv with which a drunkard’s habits cling to him through life. He may repent—he may reform; he may look with actual abhorrence upon his past profligacy; but amid all this reforma¬ tion and compunction, who can tell the moment in which the base and ruinous propensity may not re¬ cur, triumphing over resolution, remorse, shame, every thing, and prostrating its victim once more in all that is destructive and revolting in that fatal vice. The wretched man left the place in a state of utter intoxication. He was brought home nearly insensible, and placed in his bed, where he lay in the deep, calm lethargy of drunkenness. The-younger part of the family retired to rest much after their usual hour; but the poor wife remained up, sitting by the fire, too much grieved and shocked at the recurrence of what she had so little expected, to settle to rest; fatigue, however, at length overcame her, and she sunk gradu¬ ally into an uneasy slumber. She could not tell how long she had remained in this state, when she awoke, and immediately on opening her eyes, she perceived THE DRUNKARD AND PAT CONNELL AT THE TAVERN. (201) THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 203 by the faint red light of the smouldering turf-embers, two persons, one of whom she recognized as her hus¬ band, noiselessly gliding out of the room. “Pat, darling, where are you going?” said she, There was no answer—the door closed after them; but in a moment she was startled and terrified by a loud and heavy crash, as if some ponderous body had been hurled down the stairs. Much alarmed, she started up, and going to the head of the staircase, she called repeatedly upon her husband, but in vain. She returned to the room, and with the assistance of her daughter, whom I had occasion to mention before, she succeeded in finding and lighting a candle, with which she hurried again to the head of the staircase. At the bottom lay what seemed to be a bundle of clothes, heaped together, motionless, lifeless—it was her hus¬ band. In going down the stairs, for what purpose can never now be known, he had fallen, helplessly and violently, to the bottom, and coming head foremost, the spine at the neck had been dislocated by the shock, and instant death must have ensued. The body lay upon that landing-place to which his dream had refer¬ red. It is scarcely w’orth endeavouring to clear up a single point in a narrative where all is mystery; yet I could not help suspecting that the second figure which had been seen in the room by Connell’s wife on the night of his death, might have been no other than his own shadow. I suggested this solution of the difficulty; but she told me that the unknown person had been considerably in advance of the other, and on reaching the door, had turned back, as if to communi- 204 * THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. cate something to his companion—it was then a mys¬ tery. Was the dream verified?—whither had the dis¬ embodied spirit sped ?—who can say ? We know not. But I left the house of death that day in a state of horror which I could not describe. It seemed to me that I was scarce awake. I heard and saw every thing as if under the spell of a nightmare. The coin¬ cidence was terrible. THE EAFTMAN’S OATH. * By D. Strock, Jr. “Well, I’ll never drink another drop of liquor while on the water.” These words, uttered by a youth of not more than twenty-three, yet apparently dissolute and weather- ( 205 ) 206 THE RAFT MAN’S OATH. beaten, seemed to accord ill with the place and the circumstances under which they were uttered. He was in a tavern, surrounded by companions hardened as himself, and within hearing of the ringing of glasses, which the landlord was circulating merrily. Any one who has. been in a tavern among the hills of Vermont, must have been struck with the fact that such an establishment occupies a far more important position among the inhabitants of the Green state, than taverns do in our large cities. There, after their daily toil, the workmen collect to discuss matters of busi¬ ness, or general news. There, politicians meet to cal¬ culate chances; and a motley group of travellers, far¬ mers, sportsmen, “ western men,” “ Bosting men,” of both sexes, all classes, and every shade of character below mediocrity, gather there to sing, carouse, and get drunk. At such times, too, like vigilant soldiers in a hard campaign, they criticise the movements of their great enemies, the temperance men, and con over with doleful voice and features, the names of those unfortunate victims who, up to the latest ac¬ counts from “town,” have been “caught.” When all these circumstances are kept in view, it will not appear strange that the man who, in a Ver¬ mont bar-room, could muster sufficient nerve to utter the sentence with which our sketch opens, would soon find himself in a most ridiculous situation. Men stared at him; beings, who scarcely retained even the form of women, leered at him through their half shut eyes; the landlord stopped short in the act of filling a glass, and, holding the decanter horizontally in his THE RAFT MAN’S OATH. 207 hand, peeped through his spectacles towards the quarter from whence the voice proceeded. In less than five minutes one half of the company were around the young man, jesting, mocking, and laughing. “I say,” he repeated slowly, “I’ll never again drink liquor while on the water.” “Ha! ha! ha!” shouted a miserable being near him. “Tom’s turned a temperance man! ha! ha! ha! Stick to it, Tom!” “ You ain’t going to sign the paper, are you, Tom ?” whined a loafer, who sat in the window-sill, with his knees as high as his head, and his hands in his pockets. “ I don’t believe a word of it,” said a third. “ The first wind would keel him over high and dry, unless he carries ballast. He’ll drown like a land rat in the first storm. Else he’ll be thrown in a galloping de¬ cline. Won’t he landlord ?” “ No doubt of it.” There was some laughing. “ You may laugh as much as you please,” said the young man; “but I’ll do as I have said. I have just been told that Jack Hall was drowned last night be¬ fore his raft was three miles from the place where he started.” “Jack Hall drowned !” shrieked a young woman, clothed in rags, and with fiery, bloated eyes. “ Oh ! poor Jack is not dead !” On receiving repeated as¬ surance, she rushed with wild cries from the tavern, followed by two or three others, men and women. “There,” said the first speaker, “is some more of 208 THE RAFTMAN’S OATH. rum’s doings. Poor Lucy! Once she was a nice girl—she loved her cousin, too. When I think of it, I almost resolve never to taste liquor again. I wish I couhhkeep such a resolution.” "'Some chance for a temperance lecture, I see,” said Ahe landlord. - -‘jf am not going to lecture,” Tom replied. “ But I’ll tell vou what it is, landlord, some of us here have not yet forgotten what Jack was before he fell into your clutches. A finer young man never climbed the Green mountains. I went to school with him, poor fellow, and we struggled hard with each other for the head of the class. But there was no quarrelling. He saved my sister, too, once, when our boat struck a snag in the Onion river. I begged him not to go last night, for I saw he was drunk, and something seemed to tell me, that he would not return safe. Perhaps you can tell us, landlord, who sold him the liquor.” There was a bitterness in Tom’s expression which roused the minute quantity of shame which still ho¬ vered about the rumseller’s character. It was per¬ ceptible in his countenance as he said— “ Well, I’m sorry Jack was drowned, for he was a good customer. But every man is free in this coun¬ try • and if he would get drunk, who’s to blame ? Pretty times we’d have if we wouldn’t sell liquor ex¬ cept to the temperance folks.” “ If every man is free, I’ll be free too,” replied Tom; " and remember, landlord, you finger no more coin of mine. ' For I perceive now, thaHf any of us would 1 THE RAFTMA.n’s OATH. 209 meet with sadden death, you would care no more foi it than you do for poor Jack's death.” “ That’s a fact,” said a woman, who sat on a Crazy box, with, her back against the wall. “ When'Washy died, poor soul, with the rheumatiz, who should cbmo next day for his bill, but Mr. Landlord. It made my ' % heart ache, though I said nothing. Washy was a good husband, but he would drink. I wish I could swear off.” *. , • , ■ A /,-. ■ , ’ Vv ,*,. . “ Hold your tongue, old woman,” said the landlord, angrily. “You are never done crying about that; drunken loafer.” “ I suppose it’s a free country, landlord,” said Tom, in a tone of bitter irony. “Yes, it is a free country; and now I’ll speak,” said a man who had hitherto been silent. He rose to his full height, and strode towards Tom. “Young man,” he said, in a tone of deep earnestness, “stick to your resolution.” “ I will stick to it,” replied Tom. “ Pledge me your hand.” Tom gave his hand. r “ Swear that you will stick to it.” “I do swear.” * “ That you will never break it.” “ I never will,” said Tom, in a husky voice. The landlord muttered something about fools. “Landlord,” said the man, turning suddenly, “I have a few words for your ear.” “ I don’t want to hear them,” growled the landlord. - , “ But you shall hear them,” replied the other. •1 * .” ' •fr ■■ r. • » " 'i. ...-i, i' , , ‘v l ,> ■ . * . v * • *«*!«.«, Vi.' - ^ v • : * ' , . . V • HU, • J ' -wy • ■ 210 THE RAFTMAN’S OATH. * For ten years I have been a drunkard, a low, de¬ based, degraded drunkard. Once I was a scholar and a gentleman and could count my wealth by thou¬ sands. Look at me to-day ! all my fortune is before you. Many times I have attempted to reform, and each time failed, because I could not stay from such places as you keep. To-day I struggled to abstain from drink, even in the face of temptation, and I suc¬ ceeded. It is owing to this young man, and to your unfeeling conduct. I could reveal a tale about one who loved me, that would fill 'every one here with horror; but I wall not. But when you think of Jack Hall, remember, that by sneering at his death, you lost at least tw 7 o customers to your traffic of iniquity.” Tom and his new friend^left the tavern together. Two days after this scene, Tom, with his compa¬ nion, and three other men, w 7 as descending the Con¬ necticut on a raft. True to his resolution, he had drunk nothing but w r ater before starting. This cir¬ cumstance without a precedent in Tom’s previous career, excited no little astonishment and speculation among his fellow raftmen. Some thought he had “sworn off;” others, that he had been “caught” by the temperance men. There was much whispering about colds, consumption, fool-hardiness, and the vir¬ tues of alcohol. The head raftman intimated, with a sneer, that w T hen they reached the rapids, Tom would have to be tied, to prevent his falling overboard. To all this the young man answered nothing; but, plying his task industriously, he beguiled the hours by con¬ versation wfith his friend, w r hose name w r as Wilson. t 211 THE RAFT MAN’S OATH. Gradually night drew on. The air was chill and boisterous, and the heavy raft rocked like a cradle, as the waves dashed against its sides, or broke under it. All the men, except Tom and Wilson, buttoned great coats tightly around them : they worked without coat or jacket. As night advanced, and the moon sank in the west, the joyous song and conversation, which had hitherto relieved the dreary prospect, ceased, and each man gave his whole attention to the management of the raft. About ten o’clock the head raftman sat down—a circumstance which appeared to Tom most ominous. In a few moments afterwards a loud roar¬ ing of water was heard. “Captain,” said Tom, “are we approaching the rapids?” Ther p was no answer—Tom repeated his question with the same result. Much alarmed he leaped for¬ ward and laid his hand upon the raftman’s shoulder. A ferocious growl was the reply, and the drunken man fell heavily upon the raft, A glance showed Tom that the steersman was in the same situation. The noise grew louder; and now, the young man became conscious of their perilous condition. The raft was driving headlong before the tide, the rapids were close at hand, and two of the men already useless. “For heaven’s sake, Wilson,” he exclaimed, “lay. hold of the helm, and steer to shore.” Wilson jammed the helm completely round, so that the heavy pile lay with its side against the tide. One of the men was still able to row. Tom called to him 15 i 212 THE RAFTMAN’S OATH. » to work for his life; and dragging the captain to the middle of the raft, he rowed with vigorous arm, to reach the shore. But the helm, through bad manage¬ ment, had been damaged; so that instead of approach¬ ing the land, the raft, drifted rapidly towards a pile of rocks. Tom shuddered, as he saw, through the darkness, the white foam boiling over the hidden reef. The next moment the spray dashed over him “Turn from shore,” he shouted. Wilson jammed the helm with a force that made the heavy logs start. It broke short in his hand. There was not a moment to be lost. Seizing one end of his pole, Tom planted the other against the rocky ledge, and pushed with all his might from shore. His two companions did the same; and by their united efforts, the huge mass was swung round towards the current. But as it passed rapidly down the stream, a jutting rock struck the end on which Tom and the captain were, and severed it from the main part. The waves rushed through every part, tearing the logs apart, and hurrying them down the tide. A wild shriek arose from Wilson and his companions; but with the promptitude, learned only amid dangers like this, Tom sprang from the ruined mass, and lighted upon the raft as it swept by. There was no time for congratulation. Their frail bark sprung round and round, and, meeting with a second reef, was shattered and driven against the shore. Fortunately it here became jammed between some rocks, and remained immovable. Seizing the drunken steersman, the three men clambered to the land, and took refuge under THE RAFT MAN’S OATH. 213 some trees. Though cold, wet, and hungry, they soon fell asleep overpowered by weariness. The sun had risen before they awoke. In each face, thankfulness for their escape was mingled with sorrow. None inquired for the head steersman; for he had been seen sweeping down the waves which had broken the raft. They spent the day at a neigh¬ bouring village; and, in the afternoon, set out for their homes. Tom and Wilson travelled together; and their sad story revived in the minds of many the words which the young man had spoken when he heard about the death of Jack Hall. At Tom’s house, they renewed the oath which they had sworn before setting out, and added to it another—to abstain for ever from all intoxicating drinks. It is needless t:) remark that both of them have kept it to the present time I ELLEN MURPHY. I IT’S ONLY A DROP. Prom Chambers' Edinburgh Journal. It was a cold winter’s night, and though the cot¬ tage where Ellen and Michael, the two surviving children of old Ben Murphy lived, was always neat and comfortable, still there was a cloud over the brow ( 214 ) it’s only a drop. 215 of both brother and sister, as they sat before the cheer¬ ful fire. It had obviously been spread not by anger, but by sorrow. The silence had continued long, though it was not bitter. At last, Michael drew away from his sister’s eyes, the checked apron she had ap¬ plied to them, and taking her hand affectionately within his own, said, “ It isn’t for my own sake, Ellen, though, the Lord knows, I shall be lonesome enough the long winter nights, and the long summer days, without your wise saying, and your sweet song, and your merry laugh, that I can so well remember—ay, since the time when our poor mother used to seat us on the new rick, and then, in the innocent pride of her heart, call father to look at us, and preach to us against being conceited, at the very time she was mak¬ ing us proud as peacocks by calling us her blossoms of beauty, and her heart’s blood, and her king and queen.” “ God and the Blessed Virgin make her bed in hea- ven, now and for evermore, amen,” said Ellen, at the same time drawing out her beads, and repeating an Ave with inconceivable rapidity. “ Ah, Mike,” she added, “that was the mother, and the father too, full of grace and godliness.” “ True for ye, Ellen, but thafs not what I’m aftlier now r , as you well know, you blushing little rogue of the world; and sorra a word I’ll say against it in the end, though it’s lonesome I’ll be on my own hearth¬ stone, with no one to keep me company but the ould black cat, that can’t see, let alone hear, the craythur!” “ Now,” said Ellen, wiping her eyes, and smiling her own bright smile, “ lave off; ye’re just like all the i 216 it's only a drop. men, purtending to one thing when they mane an¬ other ; there’s a dale of desate about them—all—every one of them—and so my mother often said. Now, you’d better have done, or maybe I’ll say something that will bring, if not the colour to your brown cheek, a dale more warmth to yer warm heart, than would be convanient, just by the mention of one Mary— Mary ! what a purty name Mary it is, isn’t it?—its a common name too, and yet you like it none the worse for that. Do you mind the ould rhyme ?— ‘ Mary, Mary, quite contrary !’ Well, I’m not going to say she is contrary—I’m sure she’s any thing but that to you, any way, brother Mike. Can’t you sit still, and don’t be pulling the hairs out of Pusheen cat’s tail, it isn’t many there’s in it; and I’d thank you not to unravel the beautiful English cotton stocking I’m knitting; lave off your tricks, or I’ll make common talk of it, I will, and be more than even with you, my tine fellow! Indeed, poor ould Pusheen,” she continued, addressing the cat with great gravity, “ never heed what he says to you ; he has no notion to make ijou either head or tail to the house, not he; he won’t let you be without a misthress to give ye your sup of milk, or yer bit of sop; he won’t let you be lonesome, my poor puss; he’s glad enough to swap an Ellen for a Mary, so he is; but that’s a sacret, avourneen ; don’t tell it to any one.” “Any thing for your happiness,” replied the bro¬ ther, somewhat sulkily; “but your bachelor has a it’s only a drop. 217 worse fault than ever I had, notwithstanding all the lecturing you kept on to me; he has a turn for the drop, Ellen, you know he has.” “ How spitefully you said that!” replied Ellen; “ and it isn’t generous to spake of it when he’s not here to defend himself” “ You’ll not let a word go against him,” said Mi¬ chael. “ No,” she said, “ I will never let ill be spoken of an absent friend. I know he has a turn for the drop, but I’ll cure him.” “ After he is married,” observed Michael, not very good naturedly. “ No,” she answered, “ before. I think a girl’s chance of happiness is not worth much who trusts to after mar¬ riage reformation. I wont. Didn’t I reform you, Mike, of the shockin’ habit you had, of putting every thing off to the last? And after reforming a brother, who knows what I may do with a lover ? Do you think that Larry’s heart is harder than yours , Mike? Look what fine vegetables we have in our garden now, all planted by your own hand, when you come home from work—planted during the very time wdiich you used to spend in leaning against the door cheek, or smoking your pipe, or sleeping over the fire. Look at the money you got from the agricultural society.” “ That’s yours, Ellen,” said the generous-hearted Mike. I’ll never touch a penny of it; but for you I never should have had it. I’ll never touch it.” “ You never shall,” she answered. “I’ve laid it every penny out; so that when the young bride comes 218 it’s only a drop. home, she’ll have such a house of comforts as are not to be found in the parish—white table-cloths for Sun¬ day, a little store of tay and sugar, soap, candles, starch, every thing good, and plenty of it.” “My own dear, generous sister!” exclaimed the young man. “ I shall ever be your sister,” she replied, “ and hers too. She’s a good colleen, and worthy my own Mike; and that’s more than I would say to ere an¬ other in the parish. I wasn’t in earnest when I said jou’d be glad to get rid of me; so put the pouch, every bit of it off yer handsome face. And hush !— whist! will ye? there’s the sound of Larry’s foot¬ steps in the bawn—hand me the needles, Mike.” She braided back her hair with both hands, ar¬ ranged the red ribbon, that confined its luxuriance, in the little glass that hung upon the dresser, and, after composing her arch laughing features into an expres¬ sion of great gravity, sat down, and applied herself with singular industry to take up the stitches her brother had dropped, and put on a look of right maidenly astonishment when the door opened, and Larry’s good-humoured face entered, with the saluta¬ tion of “ God save all here !” He popped his head in first, and after gazing around, presented his goodly person to their view; and a pleasant view it was, for he was of genuine Irish bearing and beauty—frank, and manly, and fearless looking. Ellen, the wicked one, looked up with well feigned astonishment, and exclaimed, “Oh, Larry, is it you? and who would have thought of seeing you this blessed night? Ye’re 219 it’s only a drop. lucky—just in time for a bit of a supper afther your walk across the moor. I cannot think what in the world makes you walk over that moor so often ; you’ll get wet feet, and yer mother ’ill be forced to nurse you. Of all the walks in the county, the walk across that moor’s the dreariest, and yet ye’re always going it! I wonder you haven’t better sense; ye’re not such a chicken now.” “Well,” interrupted Mike, “it’s the women that bates the world for desaving. Sure she heard yer step when nobody else could; it’s echo struck on her heart, Larry,—let her deny it. She’ll make a shove off if she can; she’ll twist you, and twirl you, and turn you about, so that you wont know whether it’s on your head or your heels ye’re standing. She’ll tossicate yer brains in no time, and be as composed herself as the dove on her nest in a storm. But ask her, Larry, the straitforward question, whether she heard you or not. She’ll tell no lie—she never does.” Ellen shook her head at her brother, and laughed, and immediately after the happy trio sat down to a cheerful supper. Larry was a good tradesman, blythe, and “ well to do” in the world; and had it not been for the one great fault—an inclination to take “ the least taste in life more” when he had already taken quite enough— there could not have been found a better match for good, excellent Ellen Murphy, in the whole kingdom of Ireland. When supper was finished, the everlast¬ ing whisky-bottle was produced, and Ellen resumed her knitting. After a time, Larry pressed his suit to 220 ITS ONLY A DROP. Michael for the industrious hand of his sister, think¬ ing, doubtless, with the natural self-conceit of all man- kind, that he was perfectly secure with Ellen; but though Ellen loved, like all my fair countrywomen, well , she loved, I am sorry to say, zmlike the generality of my fair countrywomen, wisely, and reminded her lover that she had seen him intoxicated at the last fair of Rathcoolin. “ Dear Ellen,” he exclaimed, “ it was ‘ only a drop/ the least taste in life that overcame me. It overtook me unknowst, quite against my will.” “ Who poured it down yer throat, Larry ?” “Who poured it down my throat is it? why, my¬ self, to be sure; but are you going to put me to a three months’ penance for that?” “ Larry, will you listen to me, and remember that the man I marry must be converted before we stand before the priest. I have no faith whatever in con¬ versions after.”- “ Oh, Ellen !” interrupted her lover “It’s no use oh Ellening me,” she answered quickly; “ I have made my resolution, and I’ll stick to it.” “ She’s as obstinate as ten women,” said her brother. “There’s no use in attempting to contradict her; she always has had her own way.” “ It’s very cruel of you, Ellen, not to listen to rea¬ son. I tell you, a tablespoonful will often upset me.” “ If you know that, Larry, why do you take the tablespoonful ?” Larry could not reply to this question. He could 221 it’s only a drop. only plead that the drop got the better of him, and the temptation , and the over comingness of the thing, and it was very hard to be at him so about a trifle. “ I can never think a thing a trifle,” she observed, “ that makes you so unlike yourself; I should wish to respect you always, Larry, and in my heart I be¬ lieve no woman ever could respect a drunkard. I don’t want to make you angry; God forbid you should ever be one, and I know you are not one yet; but sin grows mighty strong upon us without our knowledge. And no matter what indulgence leads to bad ; we’ve a right to think any thing that does lead to it sinful in prospect, if not at the present.” “You’d have made a fine priest, Ellen,” said the young man, determined, if he could not reason, to laugh her out of her resolve. cD “I don’t think,” she replied, archly, “if I was a priest, that either of you would have liked to come to me to confession.” “ But Ellen, dear Ellen, sure it’s not in positive downright earnest you are; you can’t think of put¬ ting me off on account of that unlucky drop, the least taste in life, I took at the fair. You could not find it in your heart. Speak for me, Michael, speak for me. But I see it’s joking you are. Why, Lent will be on us in no time, and then we must wait till Easter—it’s easy talking.” “ Larry,” interrupted Ellen, “do not you talk your self into a passion; it will do no good; none in the world. I am sure you love me, and I confess before my brother it will be the delight of my heart to return 222 it’s only a drop. that love, and make myself worthy of you, if you will only break yourself of that one habit, which you qualify to your own undoing by fancying, because the least taste in life makes you what you ought not to be, that you still take it.” “ I’ll take an oath against the whisky, if that will plase ye, till Christmas.” “ And when Christmas comes, get twice as tipsy as ever, with joy to think yer oath is out—no?” “ I’ll sware any thing you plase.” “ I don’t want you to sw r are at all; there is no use in a man’s taking an oath he is anxious to have a chance of breaking. I want your reason to be con¬ vinced.” u My darling Ellen all the reason I ever had in my life is convinced.” “ Prove it by abstaining from taking even a drop, even the least drop in life, if that drop can make you ashamed to look your poor Ellen in the face.” “ I’ll give it up altogether.” “ I hope you will one of these days, from a convic¬ tion that it is really bad in every way; but not from cowardice, not because you darn’t trust yerself.” “ Ellen, I’m sure ye’ve some English blood in yer veins, you’re such a reasoner. Irish women don’t often throw a boy off because of a drop; if they did, it’s not many marriage dues his Reverence would have, winter or summer.” “ Listen to me, Larry, and believe, that, though I spake this way, I regard you truly; and if I did not, I’d not take the throuble to tell you my mind.” “ Like Mick Brady’s wife, who, whenever she thrashed him, cried over the blows, and said they were all for his good,” observed her brother slyly. “ Nonsense !”—listen to me, I say, and I’ll tell you why I am so resolute. , It’s many a long day since, going to school, I used to meet—Michael minds her, too, I’m sure—an old bent woman; they used to call her the Witch of Ballaghton. Stacy was, as I have said, very old, entirely withered and white headed, bent nearly double with age, and she used to be ever and always muddling about the streams and ditches, gathering herbs and plants, the girls said to work charms with; and at first they used to watch, rather far off, and if they had a good chance of escaping her tongue and the stones she flung at them, they’d call 224 it’s only a drop. her an ill name or two, and sometimes, old as she was, she’d make a spring at them sideways like a crab, and howl, and hoot, and scream, and then they’d be off like a flock of pigeons from a hawk, and she’d go on disturbing the green coated waters with her crooked stick, and muttering words which none, if they heard, could understand. Stacy had been a well-rared wo¬ man, and knew a dale more than any of us; when not tormented by the children, she w r as mighty well spoken, and the gentry thought a dale more about her than she did about them; for she’d say there wasn’t one in the country fit to tie her shoe, and tell them so, too, if they’d call her any thing but Lady Stacy, which the rale gentry of the place all humoured her in ; but the upstarts, who think every civil w r ord to an inferior is a pulling down of their own dignity, would turn up their noses as they passed her, and mavbe she didn’t bless them for it. “ One day Mike had gone home before me, and, coming down the back bohreen, wdio should I see 4 moving along it but Lady Stacy; and on she came, muttering and mumbling to herself, till she got near me; and, as she did, I heard Master Nixon (the dog man’s*) hound in full cry, and seen him at her heels, and he over the hedge encouraging the baste to tear her in pieces. The dog soon was up with her, and then she kept him off as w r ell as she could with her crutch, cursing the entire time; and I was very frightened, but I darted to her side, and, with a wat- * Tax-gatherers were so called some time in Ireland, because they col¬ lected the duty on dogs. ITS ONLY A DROP. ‘225 tie I pulled out of the hedge, did ray best to keep him off her. “Master Nixon cursed at me with all his heart; but I wasn’t to be turned off that way. Stacy, her¬ self, laid about with her staff; but the ugly brute would have finished her, only for me. I don’t sup¬ pose Nixon meant that; but the dog was savage, and some men like him delight in cruelty. Well, I beat the dog off; and then I had to help the poor fainting woman, for she was both faint and hurt. I didn’t much like bringing her here, for the people said she wasn’t lucky; however, she wanted help, and I gave it. When I got her on the floor,* I thought a drop of whisky would revive her, and, accordingly, I offered her a glass. I shall never forget the venom with which she dashed it on the ground. “ ‘ Do you want to poison me,’ she shouted, ‘afther saving my life?’ When she came to herself a little, she made me sit down by her side, and fixing her large gray eyes upon my face, she kept rocking her body backwards and forwards while she spoke, as well as I can remember, what I’ll try to tell you; hut I can’t tell it as she did—that wouldn’t be in nature. ‘Ellen,’ she said, and her eyes fixed in my face, ‘I wasn’t always a poor lone creature, that every ruffian who walks the country dare set his cur at. There was full and plenty in my father’s house when I was young; but before I grew to womanly estate, its walls were bare and roofless. What made them so ?—Drink! • In the house 226 it’s only a drop. whisky ! My father was in debt: to kill thought, he tried to keep himself so that he could not think: he wanted the courage of a man to look his danger and difficulty in the face, and overcome it; for, Ellen, mind my words, the man that will look debt and danger stea¬ dily in the face, and resolve to overcome them, can do so. He had not means, he said, to educate his children as be¬ came them. He grew not to have means to find them, or their poor patient mother, the proper necessaries of life; yet he found the means to keep the whisky cask flowing, and to answer the bailiff’s knocks for admission by the loud roar of drunkenness, mad as it was wicked. They got in at last, in spite of the care taken to keep them out; and there was much fighting, ay, and blood spilt, but not to death; and while the riot was a-foot, and we were crying round the death¬ bed of a dying mother, where was he?—They had raised a ten-gallon cask of whisky on the table in the parlour, and astride on it sat my father, flourishing the huge pewter funnel in one hand, and the black jack streaming with whisky in the other; and amid the fumes of hot punch that fknved over the room, and the cries and oaths of the fighting, drunken company, his voice was heard, swearing ‘ he had lived like a king, and would die like a king.’ ” “ And your poor mother?” I asked. “ Thank God, she died that night! she died before worse came. She died on the bed that, before her corpse was cold, was dragged from under her, through the strong drink—through the badness of him who ought to have saved her; not that he was a bad man, 227 it’s only a drop. # either, when the whisky had no power over him, but he could not bear his own reflections. And his end soon came. He didn’t die like a king; he died, smothered in a ditch, where he fell; he died, and was in the presence of God—how ? Oh ! there are things that have had whisky as their beginning, and their end, that made me as mad as ever it made him ! The man takes a drop, and forgets his starving family; the woman takes it, and forgets she is a mother and a wife ! It’s the curse of Ireland ! a bitterer, blacker, deeper curse than ever was put on it by a foreign power, or hard made laws!” “ God bless us !” was Larry’s half-breathed ejacu¬ lation. “ I only repeat ould Stacy’s words,” said Ellen; “you see I never forgot them. ‘You may think,’ she continued, ‘ that I had had warning enough to keep me from having any thing to say to those who were too fond of drink; and I thought I had; but, somehow, Edward Lambert got round me with his sweet words, and I was lone and unprotected. I knew he had a little fondness for the drop, but in him, young, handsome, and gay-hearted, with bright eyes and sunny hair, it did not seem like the horrid thing which had made me shed no tear over my father's grave. Think of that, young girl: the drink doesn’t make a man a beast at first , but it will do so before it’s done with him—it will do so before it’s done with him. I had enough power over Edward, and enough memory of the past, to make him swear against it, except so much at such and such a time, 16 228 it’s only a drop. and, for a while, he was very particular; but one used to entice him, and another used to entice him, and I am not going to say but I might have managed him differently; I might have got him off it—gently, may be; but the pride got the better of me, and I thought of the line I came of, and how I had married him who wasn’t my equal, and such nonsense, which always breeds disturbance betwixt married people; and I used to rave, when, may be, it would have been wiser if I had reasoned. Any way, things didn’t go smooth—not that he neglected his employment; he was industrious, and sorry enough when the fault was done; still he would come home often the worse for drink—and now that he’s dead and gone, and no finger is stretched to me but in scorn or hatred, I think may be I might have done better; but, God defend me, the last was hard to bear.’ Oh, boys,” said Ellen, “if you had only heard her voice when she said that , and seen her face—poor ould Lady Stacy, no wonder she hated the drop, no wonder she dashed down the whisky.” “ You kept this mighty close, Ellen,” said Mike; u I never heard it before.” “I do not like coming over it,” she replied ; “the last is hard to tell. The girl turned pale while she spoke, and Lawrence gave her a cup of water. “ It must be told,” she said; “ the death of her father proved the effects of deliberate drunkenness. What I have to say, shows what may happen from being even once unable to think or act. “ 4 1 had one child,’ said Stacy, ‘ one, a darlint, blue- it’s only a drop. 229 eyed, laughing child. I never saw any so handsome, never knew any so good. She was almost three years ould, and he was fond of her—he said he was, but it’s a quare fondness that destroys what it ought to save. It was the pattern of Lady-day, and well I knew that Edward would not return as he went; he said he would, he almost swore he would ; but the promise of a man given to drink has no more strength in it than a rope of sand. I took sulky, arid wouldn’t go; if I had, maybe it wouldn’t have ended so. The evening came on, and I thought my baby breathed in her cra¬ dle ; I took the candle and went over to look at her; her little face was red; and when I laid my cheek close to her lips so as not to touch them, but to feel her breath, it was hot—very hot; she tossed her arms, and they were dry and burning. The measles were about the country, and I w*as frightened for my child. It was only half a mile to the doctor’s; I knew every foot of the road ; and so leaving the door on the latch, I resolved to tell him how my darlint was, and thought I should be back before my husband’s return. Grass, you may be sure, didn’t grow under my feet. I ran with all speed, and wasn’t kept long, the doctor said— though it seemed long to me. The moon was down when I came home, though the night was fine. The cabin we lived in was in a hollow; but when I was on the hill, and looked down where I knew it stood a dark mass, I thought I saw a white light fog coming out of it; I rubbed my eyes, and darted forward as a wild bird flies to its nest when it hears the scream of the hawk in the heavens. When I reached the door, 230 it’s only a drop. I saw it was open; the fume cloud came out of it, sure enough, wdiite and thick; blind with that and terror together, I rushed to my child’s cradle. I found my way to that , in spite of the burning and the smo¬ thering. But Ellen—Ellen Murphy, my child, the rosy child whose breath had been hot on my cheek only a little while before, she was nothing but a cin¬ der. Mad as I felt, I saw how it was in a minute. The father had come home, as I expected; he had gone to the cradle to look at his child, had dropped the candle into the straw, and, unable to speak or stand, had fallen down and asleep on the door, not two yards from my child. Oh, how I flew to the doctor’s with what had been my baby! I tore across the country like a banshee; I laid it in his arms; I told him if he didn’t put life in it, I’d destroy him and his house. He thought me mad, for there was no breath, either cold or hot, coming from its lips the7i. I couldn’t kiss it in death; there was nothing left of my child to hiss ; think of that! I snatched it from where the doctor had laid it; I cursed him, for he looked with disgust at my purty child. The whole night long I wan¬ dered in the woods of Newtownbarry, with that burden at my heart.’ ” “ But her husband, her husband !” inquired Larry in accents of horror; “what became of him?—did she leave him in the burning without calling him to himself?” “No,” answered Ellen; “I asked her, and she told me that her shrieks she supposed roused him from the suffocation in wdiich he must but for them ITS ONLY A DROP 231 STACY WANDERING IJT THE WOODS. have perished. He staggered out of the place, and was found soon after by the neighbours, and lived long after, but only to be a poor heart-broken man, for she was mad for years through the country; and many a day after she told me that story, my heart trembled like a willow leaf. ‘ And now, Ellen Mur- I 232 it’s only a drop. phy,' she added, when the end was come, 4 do ye wonder I threw from yer hand as poison the glass you offered me ? And do you know why I have tould you what tears my heart to come over ?—because I wish to save you, who showed me kindness, from what I have gone through. It’s the only good I can do ye, and, indeed, it’s long since I cared to do good. Never trust a drinking man; he has no guard on his words, and will say that of his nearest friend, that would destroy him soul and body. His breath is hot as the breath of the plague; his tongue is a foolish, as well as a fiery serpent. Ellen, let no drunkard become your lover, and don’t trust to promises; try them, prove them all, before you marry.’ ” “Ellen, that’s enough,” interrupted Larry. “I have heard enough—the two proofs are enough with¬ out words. Now, hear me. What length of punish¬ ment am I to have? I won’t say that,, for, Nell, there’s a tear in your eye that says more than words. Look—I’ll make no promises—but you shall see; I’ll wait yer time; name it; I’ll stand the trial.” And I am happy to say, for the honour and credit of the country, that Larry did stand the trial—his resolve was fixed; he never so much as tasted whis¬ ky from that time, and Ellen had the proud satis¬ faction of knowing she had saved him from destruc¬ tion. They were not, however married till after Easter. I wish all Irish maidens would follow Ellen’s example. Woman could do a great deal to prove that “ the least taste in life ’ is a great taste too much !— that “only a drop” is a temptation fatal if unresisted. CLIFFOltD YISITED BY GREEUE. (234) CHARLES CLIFFORD. By D. Sthock, Jr. Travellers tell us of a serpent which hides among the sands of the Eastern desert, and bites the weary limbs of him who approaches the fountain to slake his thirst. Intoxication is such a serpent. It lurks in the paths of usefulness and honour, and stings, with its envenomed fang, the youth who, with heart bounding with hope, is beginning to tread the arena of life. Our story is a tale of one of these victims. One cold evening in November, a young man, named Charles Clifford, sat alone in a small room of a house in Philadelphia. The furniture and tasteful decorations showed that it was the abode of luxury; while the masses of books piled upon the shelf, and strewing a table near which he sat, told that the young man could appreciate the higher sources of pleasure, which too many of the wealthy neglect. Clifford was, in every sense of the term, a student. A college life had merely developed his love of know¬ ledge; and, since returning home, he had applied himself to study with the ardour of one inspired by true genius. Young, accomplished, and wealthy, ( 235 ) 236 CHARLES CLIFFORD. society had many claims upon him; but he neglected them almost entirely, that he might pursue his favour¬ ite studies alone. He was engaged in these during the evening of which we have spoken. The subject seemed difficult and important. Sometimes he carefully turned over the leaves of a heavy folio, bound in thick leather, with massy clasps; then he compared one or two pas¬ sages in it with some in other volumes, or traced, with a rapid hand, his thoughts upon paper; and at times he arose, and, folding his arms, walked slowly over the floor. A loud knock at the door interrupted him. The servant announced Mr. Greene. Robert Greene had been a student at the college with Clifford. His appearance and manners were of the class which excite involuntary disgust, when be¬ held for the first time. The cadaverous countenance, almost buried in hair, an eye, whose clouded and sickly colour told that the system had been ruined by abuse, and an assumption of affability in voice and gestures, were too conspicuous to pass unnoticed, even by the dullest observer. He was somewhat older than Clifford, and they had been in the same class at col¬ lege. They had conversed together, studied together, passed much time together; yet they had never been real friends. There was no similarity in character which might unite the affections of the two hearts into one. During the year that had elapsed since leaving college, they had met only occasionally, and in the street. Their acquaintance was about to be CHARLES CLIFFORD. 237 renewed. After his usual rude salutation, Greene said— “ Still at your books, Charley ? Study, study night and day, as though college lasted for a lifetime, without holiday. Are you writing a history of the world, or learning to simplify the Chinese grammar ?” “ Neither,” answered the other. “I study because I find pleasure in studying.” “ Pleasure ! Well, Charley, that beats all yet. You used to say funny things at college, but nothing equal to that. And do you enjoy such pleasure every night?” “ I do not often go out,” replied Clifford. “ But you can go with me to-night,” said his visiter. “A few of us college chaps are about to have a little social fun to ourselves—that is, in plain terms, a sup¬ per. There will be fine eating, finef drinking, and no scarcity of chatting and singing. We concluded we could not do without you, so you must give up the pleasures of study for one night. It will be rare sport.” “ I shall ask to decline,” answered Clifford. “ We will hear of no declining. Do you not wish to keep alive old acquaintances?” “But I am very busy this evening. Besides, I never go to evening suppers.” “ Not conscientious, I hope,” said Greene, with a chuckling laugh. Clifford answered that he was not. “Then you must come. As to your objection of rarely going out, I remember seeing a young man 238 CHARLES CLIFFORD about Clifford’s size, walking very complacently from church last Sunday evening—in company, too. The cool, clear air seemed quite refreshing to him.” During the greater part of this conversation, Clif¬ ford had appeared listless as one in a re very. The last sentence roused him. He looked at Greene with a keen and half irritated gaze, as though he would read the thoughts of which these half bantering words were an index. Greene, discovering this, changed his tone ancj continued— “ Come, Charley, w^e w r ant you with us. You will see more there than you are aware of. Many whom you will be glad to take by the hand, are this moment waiting to greet you. It will be mortifying, indeed, if you are so ungenerous as to refuse, after receiving a formal invitation.” Clifford was overcome by these w r ords, urged in a persuasive tone. Notwithstanding his studious habits, he had always been fond of company; and the singular invitation which Greene had extended to him made him suspect that there might be, in this evening party, more than at first appeared. It must be added, also, that his main defect of character w r as timidity, which led him to yield obedience to others, even when his judgment opposed such concession. Such was the case in the present instance. The supper was held in a hall which Greene’s friends had rented for the occasion. At entering, Clifford w r as greeted wdth a round of applause, for many there w T ere sincerely glad to see him. Amid the flow of voices, the hilarity of those who had once V CHARLES CLIFFORD. 239 been schoolboys, the exchange of repartee, and an occasional song, Clifford forgot his studies, and mingled freely with his companions. During the entertainment wine was introduced. “ Now, Clifford,” said a young man named Reed, “you and I will drink each other’s health. Fill your glass.” Clifford shook his head, saying that he never drank wine. “ Never drink wine !” exclaimed Reed, as a num¬ ber of eyes turned towards Clifford, “Never drink wine ! You are not a tee-totaller, I hope.” “No,” he replied—but the blood mounted to his cheek, on seeing that he had become an object of wonder to his companions. “ But you must drink to night for company’s sake,” Reed answered. “ We shall be offended if you refuse.” Clifford shook his head. Many voices urged him, some in a pleasant tone, others with suppressed con¬ tempt. This time, however, the young man appeared firm in his refusal; for from conscientious motives he had, since leaving college, abstained from the use of wane. But at this moment Greene exclaimed, in an ironical tone, - “ Don’t force him to commit wrong. He’s afraid that he’ll get drunk.” A shout of laughter from many of the half intoxicated group followed. Clif¬ ford’s firmness gave way. He raised the glass, and drained it to the bottom. Loud acclamations rose from every side; and before they subsided, the young man had emptied another glass and another. It is 240 CHARLES CLIFFORD. needless to say that before leaving the hall he was intoxicated. It was with trembling hand that Clifford applied, that night, the dead-latch of his door. During his walk home, the cool air had somewhat sobered him, so that he felt ashamed and degraded. It being late, all in the house were asleep. With as little noise as possible he passed into his room, closed the door, and throwing himself upon the bed, was soon asleep. Before daylight, he awoke cold, sick, and with a vio¬ lent pain in the head. A few moments’ reflection brought before his memory, in vivid colours, the scenes of the preceding evening. He shut his eyes to the truth, he tried to believe it all a dream; he arose and paced the floor, repeating with vehement gestures,—“ It cannot be—it cannot be.” Sometimes he stopped suddenly, and raising his clenched hands, he cursed the one who had led him into temptation, and his own weakness which had made him willing to yield. He longed for the appear¬ ance of daylight when he might go into the open air. The night seemed endless; and at last, though shi¬ vering with cold, he sat down by the window, and clasped his throbbing head in his hands. While there, an hour passed away. It was one of those hours of terrible agony, when a youth of generous feelings, and hitherto unspotted character, feels, for the first time, the consciousness of his own degradation. The scene that morning at the breakfast-table of Mrs Clifford was a sad one. He who had hitherto supplied the loss of the husband and father, was re- CHARLES CLIFFORD. 241 served and gloomy. His mother and sisters felt that something unusual had occurred; none suspected what it was. Clifford passed directly from the table to his study. As this was his usual custom it ex¬ cited no suspicion; but when, after partaking of no dinner, the afternoon wore away without his appear¬ ing, the family became alarmed. Annette, his young¬ est and favourite sister, stole silently to the door of his room, wdiere she paused to listen. No sound came from it. She knocked; but still there was no sound. With a convulsive effort, she pushed open the door and entered. Her brother was sitting on a chair by the window, with his arms folded, and his chin sunk upon his breast. He appeared unconscious of any thing around, and his eyes, swelled with 'in¬ flammation, were bent upon the floor. Annette, much frightened, laid her hand upon his shoulder. “ Brother, what is the matter?” she exclaimed. Clifford started to his feet. Emotions of sorrow, humiliation, and anger flitted across his face, and he fixed his eye, in a manner that he had never done before, on his sister. It was some moments before the trembling girl could repeat her question. “ Nothing,” he replied. “ Leave me—I want to be alone.” There was something in his tone which made her shudder. “ Oh, brother,” she said, approaching and laying her hand on his arm, “ why do you speak so to me ? It is Annette, your own sister. I will soothe and comfort you.” % 242 CHARLES CLIFFORD. “ Leave me, Annette!” he exclaimed wildly. I want no comforter. Who told you to interrupt me in my own study ?” “Brother, brother!” she sobbed, clasping his arm tighter; but he tore it from her grasp, and seizing his hat, hurried out of the door and down the steps. She heard the hall door open and close again. There are those in society, noisy, talkative, and eager to display all the talents, natural or acquired, which they possess, who are, notwithstanding, slow and undecisive in action. Fortunatelv, the same traits of character which prevent them from advancing in a good cause, keep them from any great degree of depravity in a bad one. On the other hand, there are a few who, silent, observant, and industrious, do much in a little time, and who form the real support of the cause in which they may be engaged. If right, their influence is powerful for good ; but if once they turn into the path of evil, they rush to ruin headlong. Charles Clifford w~as one of these. A few hours had deranged the good habits of years. He was no longer the calm and cheerful student that he had been the day before. During the morning he had made re¬ peated attempts to study, but his mind seemed con¬ fused, and a cold, sad feeling gathered round his heart as he turned over the dull pages ; and he seemed still to he amid the revelry of the previous evening. His conduct to the sister whom he tenderly loved showed how wide was the chasm which the commis¬ sion of the first degrading act had thrown between his present feelings and his former life. CHARLES CLIFFORD. 243 After leaving his home, Clifford walked rapidly along, sometimes crossing from one side to the other, or turning into a cross street like one who wanders at random. To abate, in some measure, the acute- ness of his feelings, he walked rapidly, and endea¬ voured to drive from his mind the impression of the last scene with his sister. He was unequal to such a task. Her look, her tones of affection, the words that she had used to soothe him, rose before his sight and rang in his ears. In mental anguish, he pressed his lips together, and hurried on with uneven step, until the veins of his forehead swelled almost to bursting, and strangers stared at him from the windows and sidewalks. He could not shake off the memory of Annette’s words. “ Wretch that I am !” he at length exclaimed, half aloud. “ Oh, that I could live last night over !” He paused, and turned as if to see where he was. The air was cold, but he stood with folded arms for nearly ten minutes, apparently lost in thought. He was in¬ terrupted by feeling some one grasp his arm. “ Why, Clifford!” exclaimed a low voice, “ are you mad to night ? I have followed you for a half hour, and really no man in his senses could act more like a madman than I have seen you do.” “ I’m a wretch!” the young man said, involuntarily. “ Nonsense. Don’t you know me?” “ No! I have never seen you before ! leave me.” “ Clifford,” said the other, half solemnly, “ I hope you are only joking. Surely you know the brother of Mary Sanderson.’ 17 244 CHARLES CLIFFORD. ‘ Is it you, Harry ?” exclaimed Clifford, as the name of her he loved fell on his ear. “ Excuse me,” he continued, clasping his hand. “I believe I am up¬ side down to night; but it was only for a moment, while I was thinking about something. I was rude, Harry—very rude.” “ I’ll tell you what I think, Charley,” Sanderson said, in his straight-forward manner. “ Study is kill¬ ing you. You have wasted almost to a skeleton— and take cate that the waste of mind does not follow. What good will it do you to know more than a whole college of professors ? Or, if it will do you good, be generous enough to wait a little while until some of us ignorant ones catch up with you.” “What you say may be true,” returned Clifford; “ but -: ■ ” “But what?” “ I hardly know what I would say. Let us change the subject.” “ Well, you must go with me to night, Charley.” “Where?” “ Where do you suppose, if not to the house ? Mary ' will rejoice to see you.” At any other moment Clifford would have lost no time closing with this invitation. Now, a change was upon him. He felt that degradation was written upon his brow too plainly to escape observation. He hesitated and was silent. Sanderson again invited i i I ? \ i “I must be excused to night,” he said, in a sad tone. • • . ... • I I ttsl \ CHARLES CLIFFORD. 245 “ Well, this is strange !” exclaimed his friend. “ Do I speak with Charles Clifford, or not ? But you must come,” he continued, after a pause; and, placing his friend’s arm within his own, he drew him gently along. They were soon at Sanderson’s house. The misery depicted on Clifford’s countenance was palpably visi¬ ble to blinder eyes than those of Harry’s sister. Her first salutation was an involuntary inquiry into the cause of his unusual appearance. He returned an evasive answer, but Sanderson exclaimed, sud¬ denly— “ I found him wandering in the street in a brown- study, telling nobody that he was a wretch. He is either planning a tragedy, or going mad. So I con¬ cluded to bring him where he might find a remedy.” There was^ but one person to whom Clifford did not seem an inexplicable problem. That one was Mary Sanderson. She had learned to know and to love him, and she, too, appeared to him as the bright personification of the dreams of innocent loveliness, which had occupied many an hour of his college days. He had become acquainted with her through Harry, and to her he devoted almost all the time spared from study. Often, when fatigued with mental labour, he repaired to her house, and found in her conversation the relief which no mere amusement can afford. Mutual esteem ripened into a holier feeling; and the brother beheld with pride the affections of her whom he was proud to call sister, concentrating upon one so worthy of her. 246 CHARLES CLIFFORD. With the quick feeling of intuition, Mary perceived that something more than the effects of study ailed Clifford. Hearts which have long been in unison » are skilled to detect the slightest cause for derange¬ ment. In the haggard countenance, the shrinking eye, the inconsistent replies, she read enough to alarm and shock her. The interview was reserved and painful. Harry, who entered towards its close, per¬ ceived that something was the matter, greater than he had at first anticipated. He inquired if his friend was sick; to which Clifford replied that he did not feel well. “ Shall I pour you out a glass of wine?” said Harry. It might be expected that the unhappy young man would reject the offer almost with abhorrence. In the morning this would have been the case; but to the first powerful energy of wounded character had succeeded a passive apathy—the recklessness of despair, which rendered him careless even of evil. He felt degraded—degraded, too, in the presence of her who loved him to adoration. No depth of misery now appeared low. Silently he accepted the offered glass, and, nerving himself for the effort, drank its contents in silence. He returned home an altered man. The first step to ruin had already hurried him a fearful distance down its broad path. The wine drank in the presence of Mary Sander¬ son had produced upon him an effect far different from that of the evening previous. It seemed to re¬ move the weight of grief from his mind, and to inspire CHARLES CLIFFORD. 247 him with a delirium of delight. He walked home with a buoyant step, and, on reaching his study, rang for a servant. Though late at night, he demanded wine; drank three or four glasses, and retired to bed intoxicated ! One afternoon, about three weeks after this occur¬ rence, Clifford sat alone in the large parlour of his mother’s house. A fire was burning brightly in the grate. In the short time we have mentioned, a change had come over the members of this once happy family. There was sadness on every brow; but the true cause of this change had not yet been discovered. On the above-named day, Clifford had been alone since noon; about four o’clock, he was interrupted by the entrance of Annette. Her face was pale, but her red and swollen eyes showed that she had been weeping. In her hand was a basket, containing several fine oranges, of which her brother was immoderately fond. She advanced towards him, and said— “ I have brought these for you, Charles.” He gazed at her for a moment with a look of deep melancholy. Annette again offered the fruit. “I do not want them, Annette,” he said. “ Shall I sing to you, brother?” He shook his head. “Will you go with me, this evening, to Miss Camp¬ bell’s party ?” Still he was silent. “ Then let me play on the piano for you Oh, brother, do not refuse me this.” 248 CHARLES CLIFFORD. Tears started to the poor girl's eyes, as she thus pleaded for the privilege of making another happy. For a moment, Clifford's feelings were touched. He longed to unburden his heart to her, but the transient repentance passed away; for degradation had already blunted his feelings, and rendered him selfish. In a tone of impatience he replied that he did not want to hear music. Annette placed her basket upon a table and burst into tears. “ What is the matter ?" he said, with cruel calm¬ ness. She could not reply; but, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud. This was more than he could bear. Ashamed of his behaviour, he seated him¬ self by her side, and attempted to soothe her injured feelings. An hour of wretchedness followed, during which Annette gradually recovered her self-posses¬ sion. Clifford spoke first. “ I will take these oranges to my study, sister." “ I did not bring them as a present, Charles," she said calmly. “ It was merely as a token of affection. But you do not love me now as you did once." “Do not say so, Annette," he replied, drawing her closer to him, “you are still dear to me as ever." “ Oh brother," she answered, “if you knew what I have suffered for more than two weeks, you would not refuse the pledge of reconciliation w T hich I brought you." “ Let us forget it, sister. The cause is with me, but it shall exist no longer. You do not know all, Annette—no, nor never will; but let us forget the CHARLES CLIFFORD. 249 % past and again be happy. I know you will forgive me.” A glad smile illumined her features as she heard these words, uttered in the kind tone of former days. Charles, too, was happy. A sudden impulse of virtue had made him confident of his ability to reform; so that the gloom which had hung heavily around him, all at once dissipated, the evening passed as though the week had not been one of sorrow; and for several days Charles abstained altogether from wine. But the resolutions formed through impulse are quickly broken. Only two weeks after Clifford had resolved to abstain from wine, Annette sat alone in the parlour waiting for her brother’s return. It was night, and her mother and sisters had retired to bed. Until long after midnight she watched for him, some¬ times hurrying from room to room, at others listening by the window to hear his footstep. A vague dread of some unknown evil haunted her mind, and pre¬ vented weariness or sleep. They who under like Circumstances have held their vigil hour after hour, may tell how much the heart, on such occasions, en¬ dures. But at length the fearful pause was broken. The brother came, and Annette flew to meet him. To her eager questions he returned some gruff un¬ intelligible reply; and shaking her hand from his arm, stumbled into his sitting-room, which was on the same floor as the parlour. In a short time all was silent. Annette waited a few minutes, until sure that he was not moving about the room. Then, with as little noise as possible, she glided through the en- 250 CHARLES CLIFFORD. CLIFFORD AND HIS SISTER. try, unlatched the door, and entered the sitting-room. Charles had thrown himself upon a sofa and was breathing heavily. The confined air was already tainted with the odour of wine; and as Annette ap¬ proached and bent over him, the truth flashed upon her mind. That moment afforded her an index to the cause of her late wretchedness. The sight of her brother, drunken, changed, de¬ graded, was a terrible blow to Annette. At first the shock seemed overpowering; but she did not yield to it. Woman sinks before little distresses; she braves, with nerve of steel, calamities which seem overpower¬ ing. Before she retired to her couch, Annette had CHARLES CLIFFORD. 251 resolved to hide from the family, the knowledge of her brother’s fall, and to attempt his reformation. From that night she appeared cheerful and happy as formerly, skilfully eluded all reference to his al¬ tered appearance, and openly construed his momen¬ tary tits of repentance into proofs of a disposition still loving and affectionate. At the same time she laboured with her brother to inspire his mind with its former sense of honour and dignity. But an un¬ looked-for accident defeated these efforts. Clifford’s downward course was, as we have said, rapid. In a little more than tw T o months he had im¬ bibed an intense thirst for ardent spirits, and had often appeared in the streets intoxicated. On one of these occasions he suddenly met face to face with his friend Sanderson. To the latter, such a meeting im¬ parted a shock which he could scarcely sustain. Grasping Clifford’s hand, he looked earnestly in his face and said, “ Where are you going, Charles?” Clifford’s an¬ swer was unintelligible. “ Will you go to your house with me?” continued Sanderson ; for he dreaded lest his friend might be recognized in the street. Clif¬ ford -replied with a volley of jests, songs, and inco¬ herent exclamations. At length Sanderson succeeded in conducting him, without much trouble, to Mrs. Clifford’s residence. He then disappeared, unwilling to witness the meeting which would ensue at Clif¬ ford’s entrance. That meeting destroyed in a mo¬ ment Annette’s hope of concealing her brother’s shame, and revealed to the widow, that her only son, 252 CHARLES CLIFFORD. he of whom so many hopes had been formed, was a drunkard. Perhaps no one felt this fact more keenly than did Harry Sanderson. His personal esteem for Clifford, the intimacy of their families, the relation which he sustained^ to Mary, all tended to enhance this sym¬ pathy for his friend. It will not appear strange, there¬ fore, that during his walk home, and during the re¬ mainder of the evening, he thought over the painful subject, with a view of devising some plan for his friend’s reformation. That the habit was a confined one he did not doubt. It enabled him to explain many circumstances in Clifford’s conduct hitherto in¬ explicable ; but he had forgotten the fatal glass which he had administered to his friend three months be¬ fore. At length, he determined not to reveal what he had seen to Mary, but to invite Clifford to a per¬ sonal conference, at which he might frankly state the incident of the preceding evening, and endeavour to ascertain the feelings of his friend with regard to the future. The interview—a painful one—took place. San¬ derson stated, as delicately as he could, what he had witnessed. He spoke some words about his friend’s condition only a few months previous—and now, how altered ! With shame and contrition, Clifford ac¬ knowledged his fault. “ Oh ! does Mary know it?” he added, in a tone of agony. Sanderson shook his head. “ And she will not?” he inquired, with a look of sorrow. 253 % CHARLES CLIFFORD. Sanderson was silent until the question was re¬ peated. Then he replied— “ Need I tell her, Charles? Will she not discover it?” “ Harry,” said the young man, rising, and pacing the floor, “ why did you offer me that fatar glass of wine ?” Sanderson started. As his friend walked backward and forward, with every feature distorted by the in¬ tensity of his feelings, the remembrance of the inti¬ mated event flashed across his mind, and with it the fearful consciousness that he had been an a^ent in his friend’s degradation. A long silence followed ; at the end of which Sanderson advanced towards his friend, and, taking him by the hand, exclaimed— “ Charley, swear, before you leave the room, that you will renounce wine for ever. I know you hate a drunkard as much as I do. Make but a vigorous effort, and you are safe.” “I cannot,” replied Clifford; “it’s useless to try. The habit has, in three months, become a monster. I am already old in misery.” “ Why, Clifford,” exclaimed his friend, “ do not give way to feeling in this manner. Remember you are a man; remember your station in society, and your hopes as a student. Meet the danger at once, and conquer it.” Clifford shook his head, “ Then promise to meet me again to-morrow night,” continued Sanderson. His object was to af¬ ford his friend time to reflect, and he succeeded. The 2 4 CHARLES CLIFFORD. two young men parted—one, at least, in better hopes than he had entertained in the early part of the evening. We need not state that the following day was, to Clifford, one of mental anguish. In the evening, he repaired'to the house of his friend. There they both agreed to renounce, entirely, the use of wine, or any intoxicating drink. The past was thrown to oblivion, . the future seemed to promise only years of prosperity. One month after, Clifford was intoxicated ! And during this period, where was Mary Sander¬ son ? The shade which hung on the brow and the heart of Clifford had darkened her own ; and she had already begun to feel the sorrow which wastes more surely, because endured in secret. For several weeks, mere casual circumstances—the tone of voice, a ges¬ ture, or a glance, had revealed to her the change in Clifford’s character. Then followed proofs, at first obstinately rejected, then endured with feelings which found utterance only in tears; so that, even before the fact was known to her brother, Mary was fully apprised of it. She, like Annette, formed a resolution that none should know it but herself; but the secret, hidden in her bosom, gnawed upon its frail tenement, until the flush of health fled from her cheek, her step fell heavy and uncertain, and round her eye a dull green shade gathered, which told that the mind itself had grown sickly. We would not repeat the oft-told tale of a drunk¬ ard’s course—of the tears shed over the memory of departed worth; of the gentle ones, by necessity made CHARLES CLIFFORD. 255 courageous, who cling to him through sorrow, and want, and shame, with affection which glows brighter and holier as the dark vortex of sin draws him within it; of the hopes departed, the hours clouded, the wretched ones that, one by one, go down to the tomb, unhonoured and unpitied, because they have been related to the drunkard. Let us, reader, pass over two years of such scenes, and behold one in which the inebriate and his victim were brought together. One day in the spring of 184-, a funeral procession moved slowly from the city towards a small but beau¬ tiful burying-ground, in a pleasant part of the country. The air was chill, from a recent shower; and over the face of the sky heavy clouds still hung in masses, through which the sun darted only a few straggling rays. The long line of black carriages dragged labo¬ riously through the half-frozen road ; the silence—the gloomy day, accorded well with the hour when all that remains of departed friendship, is to be consigned to the tomb. As they approached the village, near which was the burial-place, some persons, touched by the scene, opened their doors to gaze upon it; a few boys threw stones at the muddy carriages; while from a tavern, whose sign swung listlessly in the wind, two miserable creatures issued, and joined in the proces¬ sion with mock solemnity, followed it to the grave¬ yard. In strange contrast to mourning wealth, they walked over the damp sods, and stood with the com¬ pany, while a few words were spoken by a clergy¬ man over the grave. Before the coffin was lowered into the grave, one of them again directed his steps to 256 CHARLES CLIFFORD the tavern. But some who were glancing suspiciously at the other, thought they could detect in his counte¬ nance an expression not inconsistent wdth the solem¬ nities to which they had been listening. The spirit of better times seemed suddenly to gleam from his bloated countenance. In a few minutes the carriages, with their train of mourners, had driven away. The chill air and the damp earth had prevented even the relatives from re¬ maining. The sexton plied in silence his task of Fill¬ ing the grave. The man who had followed the pro¬ cession was still there. For a time he watched the motions of the spade without speaking. Then ap¬ proaching the sexton, he inquired the name of the one who had been buried. “ Her name was Mary Sanderson,’’ said the grave¬ digger. O O “ Marv Sanderson !—not Sanderson ?” said the «/ other. “ Yes, Sanderson. Why do you stare at me in that wild manner?” “ And did you know her?” “Yes; and a sweet girl she was. It is said she broke her heart, poor thing! She loved one who de¬ ceived her, and afterwards no one ever saw her smile. Many a one who knew her, will be sad enough to hear that she is gone.” “ But this is not Mary Sanderson’s grave—is it ?” said the stranger. j “ To be sure it is. Do you take me for a knave ?” The stranger tore the ragged sleeve of his coat, and CHARLES CLIFFORD. 257 loosened something from his arm. It was a bracelet of hair, with a golden clasp. He held it towards the sexton, and on the bright plate the latter read the words, “ Mary Sanderson.” The man started, and asked where he got it. “ I)o not ask me,” replied the other. “ Will you place the headstone over this grave ?” The sexton nodded assent. “ Then put this under it. I will not carry it to mock and torture me. Let the pure one who gave it to me, receive it from him who proved unworthy of her gift. Remember, if you keep it, you will have to answer to a Higher Power than yourself or me.” He left the bracelet and disappeared. It was Charles Clifford. We have compared the effects of intoxication to the sting of a serpent. May we not liken those who go among the haunts of vice to rescue the helpless ine¬ briate, to those who pass their lives in the desert, that they may relieve the weary and the wounded ? Clifford met with such. He became a member of the order whose thousands are extending over our land, and the world. He remained firm to their principles, and was most active in their cause. But he never re¬ gained his former cheerfulness. When seated in the Division room, or in the society of his companions, a shade of sorrow was often observed to pass across his brow. Many thought that his health had been im¬ paired ; but those who knew him best, believed, that at such times he was thinking of his mother who had ong since died, and of Mary Sanderson. JAMES BLAIR; OR, LOVE IN THE YALLEY OP THE JUNIATA. By Grace Greenwood. CHAPTER I. Scene First. —A moonlight night, in a forest, in the northern part of Virginia; many lights gleaming in the distance. But ... what am I about! I beg your pardon, my sober minded reader, for any thea¬ trical commencement. The truth of the matter is, I just “ dropped in” at the play, the other night, and my head is even now full of the vain things which I there saw and heard. But I should not seek to give stage effect to the really authentic J258) i JAMES BLAIR. 259 tale which I am about to relate to you, and which I only desire to “ Tell as it was told to me.” So, to begin again, soberly and in order;—it was a glorious June night, some fifteen years ago, when Henry Elbridge, the younger son of a rich and aristocratic Virginian family, rode up a rocky pathway, which 'wound through one of the magnificent forests of the “Old Dominion.” He was superbly mounted, and followed, at a little distance, by a black groom. Sud¬ denly, at a turn of the road, he checked his horse, and an exclamation of wmndering delight escaped his lips. The forest far around him was lit up as for a festival; and a multitude of snowy tents were pitched beneath the trees, gleaming through the over-hang¬ ing branches. A crowd of people, of all ages and conditions, w r ere lifting up the voice of prayer and praise in that grandest cathedral of nature’s God— the gorgeous wood, with its lofty, rugged pillars, and its thousand “sounding aisles.” It was that most unique, that most wildly-beautiful of scenes, a metliodist camp-meeting at night. It was entirely a new spectacle to our hero; for, though born in Virginia, he had been educated in New Eng¬ land, having but just graduated at Harvard. He was an ardent, enthusiastic, intellectual young man, with a heart peculiarly impressible in matters of love and religion. He had been led by curiosity alone to wit¬ ness the scene which he now contemplated with so lively an interest. At the close of the prayer and hymn he dismounted, and approached nearer to the preacher’s stand—a rude 18 260 JAMES BLAIR. platform erected on the highest part of the grounds. Taking rather a retired position, he stood carelessly leaning against a patriarchal oak, and awaited the evening’s discourse. The preacher, the celebrated B-, had not yet arrived; but presently a hush of respectful expectation fell upon the assembly, as a man of imposing form, and massive features, ascended the platform. He commenced in a manner calmly impressive, but soon his impassioned and overmaster¬ ing eloquence awoke within him, in might and gran¬ deur. His dark eve flashed with fervid zeal—his every word seemed freighted with solemn meaning— the very tones of his voice pierced the heart, sword¬ like, through the double armour of pride and unbelief. His theme was the crucifixion of our Lord ; and, as he proceeded, the groans of the strong man, and the cries of women, attested the power of the orator and the subject. Bound by the mighty spell of truth, genius-revealed, stood young Elbridge, the burning exhortations of the speaker falling like a storm of fire on his overwhelmed and shrinking spirit. Every sin, every error, every unworthy act of his life, seemed passing in dread review before him—his features be¬ came convulsed, his head bowed, and his breast • heaved tumultuously. He seemed to behold the mocking trial of our blessed Master—the crowm of thorns, the crimsoned scourge, the spear, the cup of gall;—all the human suffering, and divine meekness of that life-giving death; and, while his heart was rent with anguish unspeakable, a flood of despair, like a wave from the sea of eternal wrath, swept over his JAMES BLAIR. 261 soul; he raised his clasped hands, cried frantically, For me He died ! for me, for me /” and fell prostrate. He had swooned When he revived, he was lying in a tent, his head supported by his servant; and beside him stood the preacher, whose exhortations had so stirred up the great deeps of his soul. Then followed words of hope, and peace, and pleading prayer; and, ere the morn¬ ing dawned, a new life, mystical and holy, awoke within the bosom of the young convert; a sweet, con¬ fiding, childlike sense of reconciliation with the fa¬ ther, thrilled his heart; and the joy of the saint, sud¬ den, “ unutterable, and full of glory,” burst upon him like a tropical day. CHAPTER II. I will not dwell on the storm of opposition which was raised in the proud family of the Elbridges, when, a few* weeks subsequent to the event narrated in the foregoing chapter, Henry announced his inten tion of preparing for the ministry, after having been admitted to the church. The young enthusiast mildly, but firmly, resisted both entreaty and ridicule—-his patrician mother’s and sister’s reproaches, and the sneers of his father and brothers, at “ranting, canting, beggarly, methodist parsons.” With a strength and 26*2 JAMES BLAIR. determination which amazed those who would detei him, he resolutely trod the rugged and undeviating path of duty. Diligently and prayerfully he fitted himself for his sacred office; and at the age of twenty- three was stationed as a regular preacher, in a roman¬ tic part of the valley of the Juniata. He had heard much of the natural beauty of that portion of the country, and was all ardour and hopefulness in con templation of his pleasant duties, as the shepherd who should watch and lead the flock of the faithful, scattered through those wfild regions. But alas ! he soon found that he had dropped down among a set of semi-barbarians, in manners, prejudices, habits, and religion. Sensitive and refined, reared in luxury, and of a delicate physical organization, what course did the young clergyman pursue, when made aware of the erroneous ideas he had formed of the location to which he had been appointed ? Why, he made up his mind to labour as a missionary , ceaselessly, and ardently, until a better state of things was established, in his congregation at least. This he found to con¬ sist almost altogether of the ranting methodists, whose fits of religious feeling were accompanied hy shout¬ ings and violent convulsions. In their meetings it was not deemed out of order for singing, praying, and exhorting, to go on simultaneously; and he or she was the better saint, whose voice rose loudest or shrillest. Gently and gradually, by the influences of love and reason, did Elbridge bring about his much-needed reform; and before a year had passed, a decent quietness reigned over his religious meetings. 263 JAMES BLAIR. I There was one female preacher, however, whose frequent and singular exhortations continued a source of considerable annoyance to Eibridge. In her “ hold¬ ings forth,” she invariably began by a powerful ap¬ peal to the world’s people, expressing a fervent desire to behold “ a harpoon from the quiver of gospel truth piercing their stubborn hearts,” and closed with an admonition to the brethren and sisters “ never to turn aside to pluck the flowers that grow in nater’s gar¬ den,” but to “ persevere until they should land on the other side of everlasting deliverance,” &c., &c. Poor Eibridge found it vain for him to attempt putting a spell upon a woman’s tongue when “ set on fire of” zeal. There was also one of the brethren, who offered a stout breast to the flood of innovation. This was a good old father in Israel, who had for many years been a class-leader, and was, therefore, a privileged person. He rejoiced in a bon-vivant-ish rotundity of figure, and a round, funny face, irresistibly laughter exciting in one of his calling. His seat was directly in front of the desk, whence his responses were most frequent and inopportune. At every “ Amen” which he uttered with a loud, sonorous voice, he brought his heavy walking-stick to the floor, in a most strik¬ ing and emphatic manner. Having been interrupt¬ ed and confused until his patience was exhausted, our hero of the white neck-cloth sought his hearer, and, with kind persuasion, and by reasoning against his mal-apropos responses, wrung from him a promise of future forbearance. It happened that Elbridge’s 264 JAMES BLAIR. next discourse was a remarkably fine one, and it was with evident difficulty, from the first, that the “ stout gentleman” controlled his amenity. Warmer and warmer waxed the preacher, more and more eloquent, until it was too much for methodist nature to bear, and the old man brought down his stick, louder than ever, and shouted boldly, “ Amen, hit or miss!” I need hardly say that Elbridge did not attempt to “ deal” with his “ unruly member.” CHAPTER III. When Elbridge had been a few months in the vai ley of the Juniata, he was called to administer spirit¬ ual consolation to a woman dying of consumption. A small lad, with a slight Irish brogue, and eyes swollen with weeping, poorly but cleanly dressed, con¬ ducted him two or three miles.up the valley, to a house built of logs, but as neat as a cottage ornee, and nested in the most luxuriant shrubbery. Elbridge could scarcely believe this to be the home of James Blair, the wretched inebriate, whom he had often remarked staggering from bar-room doors, or lying by the way- side in a state of brutal intoxication. When he entered, the dying woman was sitting up¬ right in bed, supported by a young girl, whom he had before seen at his meetings, and noticed for the Ma- •uitih ’sax ao Hxraa ( 365 ) \ \ ’ * * * / 4 JAMES BLAIR. 267 donna-like sweetness and purity of her countenance. This was Elizabeth Blair, the eldest daughter of the house. Her sister, an exceedingly beautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, stood at her side, weeping pas¬ sionately. The husband and father, for once in his right mind, was kneeling at the bed-side, his face buried in his hands, and his whole frame quivering with convulsive sobs. Opposite stood Dr. N-, a young physician, late from Harrisburgh, already par¬ tially known to Elbridge. To his joy, the clergyman found that his ministra¬ tions were only needed by the husband and children; the wife and mother awaited with fearless and saint¬ like serenity the swift coming of the angel of death. In the brief conversation which he was enabled to have with her, he saw that she was remarkably intel¬ ligent for one of her station, and possessed of the clear¬ est and truest understanding of spiritual things. At the close of a simple and fervent prayer, the suf¬ ferer beckoned her younger children to draw nearer, kissed them tenderly, and faintly murmured, “ Eliza¬ beth, your mother—now.” Then, for the first time, James Blair looked up, and, in a voice husky with re¬ morseful anguish, exclaimed, “ Forgive me, Mary, before you go!” Alas! the power of speech had left the poor, wronged wife, but she stretched out her thin hand, and laid it tenderly on the head of her repentant husband, and then let it glide down upon his neck. He understood the action, and drew closer to her; she bent forward, pressed her cold lips to his, and so died. 268 JAMES BLAIR. On his return to his boarding-house, Elbridge, as¬ certained, to his surprise, that the family with whom he was domesticated were nearly related to the Blairs. Philip Denny, his host, the only brother of the late Mrs. Blair, was one of the wealthiest men in the valley; but, though violently religious, had the reputation of great penuriousness. He had but one child, a daugh¬ ter, and, as she is to be no unimportant character in this “simple story,” it is time she was known to my reader. So, my dear sir, or madame, allow me to present to you Miss Katherine Denny, the beauty and belle for many miles up and down the valley of the Juniata. She was a superb creature— a perfect Irish Juno—with the queenliest of forms, the haughtiest of gaits, and the blackest eyes con¬ ceivable, out of which flashed a fire, beautiful but dangerous, like lightning from. a midnight cloud. Katherine had been for some while the leader and life of gay society in that region, and had won for herself the name of being an arch-coquette. But soon after the advent of that rara avis , a minister, young, rich, and handsome, she became, to the great dismav of her worldly admirers, suddenly serious. She cut the vain bows from her bonnet, and the equally vain beaux at her side; she joined the “class” spiritual in the conference room, and forsook the class Terpsichorean, in the ball-room of “ The Golden Horn.” She walked demurely to meeting, and sung hymns, and talked theology with the young minister, until his suscepti¬ ble heart was affected to the degree that he found him¬ self preaching with her commendations in view, and JAMES BLAIR. 269 yet blushing and stammering painfully when he marked her great black eyes fixed upon him in ser¬ mon-time. She was thus “ in the full tide of successful experi¬ ment,” when, with the strange want of tact which the most artful women often display when their hearts are touched, she grew impatient of the slow-and-sure po¬ licy, and, resolving to conclude her conquest by a coup-de-main , she suddenly made her debut as an ex- horter! She proved herself possessed of rare talent, of abso¬ lute genius as a speaker. She talked like an inspired prophetess, and electrified her audience with her won¬ derful bursts of eloquence. Her warnings and denun¬ ciations were at times fearfully grand, and produced the most striking effect upon her impressible hearers. But, as for Elbridge, she had mistaken her man. Though, as an orthodox methodist, he advocated wo¬ men’s religious rights, and believed in the spiritual equality of the sexes, his natural delicate sensitive¬ ness, and his early prejudices, were certainly opposed to the unmaidenly course which Katherine Denny was pursuing. He was pained, disappointed, ill at ease every way, but did not presume to advise against that which he believed the result of an imperious sense of duty on the part of the beautiful religious en¬ thusiast. One Monday, while taking his morning walk, musing on these things, and striving to recon¬ cile old tastes with newly formed-principles, he over¬ heard part of a conversation between two of his church- members, who were at work in a field by the road- 270 JAMES BLAIR. side. There had been a meeting of exciting interest the night previous, and one of the men said to his companion— “ Did you know that Tom Henderson had got religion ?” “ You don’t say so! How?” “Why, he happened in at the meeting last evening, just for deviltry; but when Katherine Denny come to free her mind, he grew dreadfully religious, and lay in the power all night long.” Now Tom Henderson was known through all that region as the wildest, prqfanest jockey and fro- licker; and though good-natured and good-looking withal, the plague and pest of the honest and peacefully-inclined. Here was, indeed, cause for re¬ joicing, and Elbridge felt rebuked for his little faith, and worldly fastidiousness. “ Dear Katherine,” he so¬ liloquized, “ why should I question your right to exer¬ cise all your gifts in doing good ! If your words have carried conviction to the heart of this one sinner, great is your reward for the sacrifice of your womanly deli¬ cacy. But poor Henderson may be standing in want of spiritual consolation : I will go to him.” On reaching the abode of the Hendersons, the cleri¬ cal visiter was directed by a staring, red-haired girl, to a back yard, where he found the young convert seeking “ consolation” in a cock-fight. JAMES BLAIR. 271 ✓ CHAPTER IV. Before progressing with my story, I most tell my reader something more of the Blairs. So, reader pour mieux sauter , James Blair, an Irishman of education, and some property, married the girl of his heart, and came immediately to this country. Having an eye for the picturesque, he purchased a farm on that love¬ liest of American rivers, the Juniata. But James Blair, bred to a mercantile life, had no “ faculty” for farming; then he met with sickness, losses, and dis¬ couragements, and—oh, ’tis the old, old story, became a drunkard, and all was over with him. But Mary, poor Mary Blair, was a jewel of a wife, for a saint or a sinner—only she would have lasted longer if her “Jamie” had had more of the former, and less of the latter in his composition. But, as she wasted away in her patient hroken-heartedness, there was one to take her place. Elizabeth Blair was one of those rare characters of whom “ the world is not worthy.” A spectacle for angels was her life of unobtrusive, un¬ wearying, unmurmuring goodness. From the age of eighteen, when her mother’s health failed utterly, to her twenty-first year, the period w 7 hen she was in troduced to my reader, she had, by her own labours, clothed and fed her father and his family. In house- •/ hold duties, and the care of the invalid mother, she was assisted by her sister somewhat; but she alone 272 JAMES BLAIR. was the hope, the dependence, the “ light in a dark place,” the sustaining pillar, the animating soul of that sad, neglected family. She was school-teacher, rnantua-maker, milliner, tailoress,— all things for the good and comfort of those she loved. Dear Elizabeth ! when I remember your meek piety, your energy, patience, sweetness, and courage, I were humbled at the very thought of you, did I not know that there is no reproach in your goodness. But in her mother’s last illness the noble girl had over-tasked herself; and, after hard struggling against disease, she became alarmingly ill, with a nervous fever. Again, weeping more bitterly than ever, went little Jamie for the minister, whom he met returning from the parochial visit narrated at the close of the last chapter. Elbridge turned pale at the intelli¬ gence which the boy sobbed forth, and accompanied him immediately home. He found Elizabeth mani¬ festing the same serene resignation which had hal¬ lowed the deathbed of her mother. Before he left, however, Dr. N-- arrived, and pronounced her better, and the angel of hope revisited that desolate home. Slowly, very slowly, came back strength and health to that overwrought spirit and frame; and pleasant and profitable were the young clergyman’s frequent visits to the interesting invalid. He was sometimes accompanied by Katherine, who professed to love her cousin fervently; and he did not fear for his heart, because he constantly encountered there the young physician, to whom it was rumoured Eliza¬ beth Blair was betrothed. JAMES BLAIR. 273 At last, the invalid had so far recovered as to appear at meeting. Pale, very pale, she was; but loveliei than ever thought those who loved her. Elbridge saw that it now would be but proper for him to make his visits less frequent, and he did so. Then was he haunted by a strange feeling of unrest— he forgot his engagements—he talked to himself—he grew careless of his dress—he lost his appetite;—in short, he was in love ; but not with Katherine Denny; oh no, not with Katherine Denny. When our hero became aware of his dangerous malady, he began treating it with promptness and severity. He first prescribed for himself total absence from a certain abode of beauty and worth—love’s own log temple, built in the wilderness. A dead failure! for did he not see that face, deli¬ cately flushed with returning health, looking up to him with sweet seriousness, every blessed Sunday ? Matters were in this interesting state when, while returning one Sabbath evening from a neighbouring town, where he had been preaching, a storm com¬ pelled him to seek a night’s shelter in a farmhouse by the way. Soon after, who should ride up but Dr. N-. He came in, dripping with the rain, and laughing in his own peculiar and joyous manner. “ The doctor,” now one of my most valuable and reliable of friends, was one you might see once and remember always. His frank, handsome, heart-beam¬ ing countenance daguerreotyped itself inevitably upon the memory. He was the “ prince of good felt lows,” in the very best sense of the term. With his 274 JAMES BLAIR. freedom of mind, warm, unchecked affections, and hopeful, cheerful philosophy, he lived up to the full measure of life. Once or twice during the evening, as his fine face glowed with the inspiration of some thought, dashingly beautiful, or exquisitely grotesque, Elbridge was slightly conscious of a certain unminis- terial feeling, known to the world as jealousy; but he coughed it down, as out of order, being the sug gestion of a “gentleman in black,” not “in good and regular standing.” When the hour for retiring came, as there was but one “spare bed,” Elbridge was obliged to “turn in” with his unconscious rival. Some time in the night the doctor awoke. The storm had passed, and the moon was shining purely pale through the uncur¬ tained window. Above him bent Elbridge, vrith his large, luminous eyes, fixed with a peculiar and searching expression upon his face, and his hand pressed closely against his heart. “What the deuce-!” cried the startled doctor. “ Hush,” said the clergyman, in a solemn tone, “I want you to tell me the truth.”' “ Well, do you think you have got to take a fellow by the heart before you can get that!” “ Pardon me,” said Elbridge, but without remov¬ ing his hand, “ I have to ask you a question on which my life’s happiness depends. Will you ansvrer me truly ?” “ I will, if it is in my power.” “Do you love Elizabeth Blair?” “ Yes.” JAMES BLAIR. 275 “ That is sufficient,” said Elbridge, falling back upon his pillow. “Sufficient, is it?” said N-, and he turned himself wall-ward. But, presently, his good feelings getting the etter of his waggery, he continued : “ I do love Lizzie Blair—that’s a stubborn fact—love her as a sister; but if it will be any comfort to you, my dear sir, to know it, long before I ever saw her, I bargained myself off to just the finest girl in the Union. So, if you can win Elizabeth’s love, and deserve it , I bid you God-speed !” In the morning, Elbridge unfortunately found him¬ self oppressed with a heavy cold, in consequence of his exposure to the preceding evening’s storm. He was really ill, grew rapidly worse, and the next day was prostrate with inflamed lungs. He recovered, of course,—I would not have the heart to choose a Paul Dombey for a hero—but only after weeks of severe suffering; and then. Dr. N-, who had been his physician and constant nurse, gravely assured him that he must abandon preaching altogether, for years to come. Oh, it was a bitter moment to the young clergyman ! He groaned deeply, and bowed his face on his almost transparent hand; and, when he at last looked up, his dark eye-lashes were glistening with tears. Had all his intense longings, his hungering and thirsting after opportunities of greater usefumess in that most holy of professions, come to this! ‘While yet suffering from this unexpected trial, a letter was brought in, which he read aloud to the doc¬ tor. It was from his parents, and urged, in affection- 19 276 JAMES BLAIR. ate terms, his immediate return home. Their eldest sons were travelling, their daughter was married, and they were left quite alone. “ Really, this reconciliation at this, time, seems providential,” remarked the doctor, “ and you will surely return to Virginia as soon .as you have suffi¬ cient strength.” “Yes, but I must see Elizabeth before I go—I cannot endure this terrible suspense—my life seems balancing on a thread.” “Well, go to her,” rejoined the doctor, “she is a frank, straight-forward girl, and will tell you the truth without your taking the trouble to lay your hand on her heart.” “ But, my dear N-, should I succeed in win ning her love, I sometimes fear I shall be doing her an unkindness in taking her from the social sphere in which she has always moved; that she will be but ill at ease in the society of my family and friends.” “I tell you, Elbridge,” exclaimed N-, “you either don’t half deserve our Elizabeth, or you don’t half know her. As your wife , believe me, you will have reason to be proud of her in any circle of American society. With the highest natural grace, elegance, and dignity, she has any amount of tact, and adapted ness, and is fitted for any sphere, how¬ ever exalted, to which the man she loves may raise her. So don’t fear introducing her to your aristo¬ cratic connections, she will make her own way bravely. But here we are, coolly discussing these JAMES BLAIR. 277 matters, when heaven only knows whether the girl will have you at all, at all.” And it seemed a doubtful matter for some time after. As soon as El bridge was strong enough, he rode up to the Blairs’, and day after day repeated his visit. But there w^as Mary Blair, a laughing, teaz- ing, gipsy of a creature, always at her sister’s side, and Elbridge was suddenly the most bashful of men. Finally, calling up all his courage, he begged her to join him in a walk. “ Certainly, if you desire it,” she calmly said, and tying on her neat sun-bonnet, was soon strolling by his side. For some moments the poor fellow could not utter a syllable, but at last let his warm, honest heart speak for itself in these simplest of w r ords :— “ Elizabeth, I love you, ardently, devotedly ;—do you return my affection?” “ Mr. Elbridge,” she rejoined in a voice slightly tremulous, “though I have admired and revered, I have never yet presumed to love you; but if the grateful affection of a poor, uncultivated girFlike me can add to your happiness, I do not think it will be long withheld.” And thus th6y parted. At their next meeting, Elizabeth, suffering her lover to retain her coy, little hand in his, said wbth an enchanting smile, and in the sweetest of tones, “ 1 have been thinking over our last evening’s conversa¬ tion, and looking closely into my heart, and I find that I have been loving you all along” 278 JAMES BLAIR. CHAPTER V. When Elbridge sought James Blair, to ask of him his greatest treasure, an affecting scene occurred. The father wept tears of mingled joy and sorrow. He grieved to resign his noble daughter, but was proud of the honourable connection she w T as to form. “To one thing I will pledge myself,” he said, grasp¬ ing the hand of Elbridge, “ your wife henceforth shall never be ashamed of her father and his home. I have not been intoxicated since Mary left me, and from this day, not one drop of my bane shall pass my lips.” And he kept his word. On account of the necessity of Elbridge’s imme¬ diate return to Virginia, an early period was fixed for the wedding. One morning, a day or twx> previous to that de¬ cided upon as the day of days, Elbridge was riding slowly home from a visit to his lady-love, his thoughts winged with golden fancies, and his heart steeped in sweet recollections. In passing through a wild and rocky glen, he was startled by the sudden appearance of Katherine Denny. She was deathly pale, and her eye was blacker and more fearfully brilliant than ever. Elbridge dismounted, hung the bridle on his arm, and walking up by her side, pleasantly passed the usual compliments. To these Katherine made no reply, but turning abruptly, and fixing a gaze of in¬ tense meaning on his face, said, calmly— JAMES BLAIR. .279 “ And so you are to. marry Elizabeth Blair V* “ I am,” he replied, smiling. “It is a happy and a fortunate circumstance to her” she rejoined. “But most of ail to me” added the lover. A pause of some moments. Then Katherine continued, in a deep, impressive tone— “ Mr. Elbridge, I love my cousin, Elizabeth, as an own sister, but, stronger than my love for her, than my family pride, is my sense of the duty I owe to my pastor, to my church, to religion itself, and I must warn you before it is too late.” “Good heavens!” cried Elbridge, “what do you mean ?” “Tell me,” she replied, “did not Dr. N-ad¬ vise you to this marriage ?” “ Yes.” “ Strongly ?” “Very strongly.” “ Then, are you blind ? are you mad ?” she ex¬ claimed. “ Can you not see the trap laid for you ? He would not marry the poor girl, the drunkard’s daughter, and puts her off upon you in his calculating villany. Beware!” She then turned and ran swiftly up the hill-side at her left. Once she paused on a rock, many feet above him, and while the wind bore back the dark hair from her white cheek and brow, she stood like a very sibyl,* and, stretching her hand towards him, cried, * See Initial Letter to Chapter I. ‘28 Q JAMES BLAIR. solemnly, “ you are warned—remember !” and disap¬ peared amid the thick brushwood. Elbridge stood transfixed with amazement and horror, while the blood ran cold through every vein. A faintness came over him, and he leaned for support against his horse. But presently he lifted his head and smiled a proud, happy smile. “ I will believe in my Elizabeth,” he murmured, “as I believe in that heaven whose own goodness and purity are written in every line of her sweet face.” And he went his way with a heart strong in faith, and richer than ever in love. “ Dear Elizabeth,” said Elbridge, at their next meeting, “ if you have not yet invited the guests to our wedding, there is one of your relatives I must ask you to exclude—Katherine Denny.” “ What! dear Kate, my only cousin ! Why is this, Henry ?” “ I will tell you some time,—at present grant my request, and trust me for my reasons.” “ If it is your wash, I promise,” she said, turning aside to hide her emotion. I will not bore my reader with a description of the wedding, They were married, and started directly for Virginia. Mary Blair, who seemed to possess a goodly por¬ tion of her sister’s spirit, cheerfully took charge of her father’s family. Great was the grief of Elbridge’s attached parish¬ ioners at the loss of their faithful pastor, and he is yet remembered by them with reverence and affection. AMES BLAIR. 281 The morning after his marriage, Elbridge ac¬ quainted his wife with his memorable interview with her cousin in the glen. “It is well you did not tell me this at the time,” she said. “ Why, my love ?” “ I never should have married you, had you done so.” As for Katherine Denny, she soon after lost, unac¬ countably, her religious zeal, “ backslid” to her belle- hood, and finally “ astonished the natives” by a run¬ away match with Tom Henderson. ********* I think I cannot better close my story, than by quoting part of a letter from my friend Dr. N-, to whom I had applied for information of the after-fate of some of my characters. “ The Elbridges had been married some four or five years,” he writes, “ w T hen I visited them with my wife, at their home in Virginia. We found them living happily and harmoniously with the parents, brother, and widowed sister of Elbridge, in the very midst of his “ aristocratic connexions.” Without being essentially changed, Elizabeth Elbridge had become truly a magnificent woman. Her beauty was heightened to greater delicacy by habits of elegance and rendered striking by rich and tasteful attire. Her sweet face was softly shadowed by a constant care for poor Henry’s health, which I found was not yet firmly established. She had then one child, a boy, and her brother “Jamie,” grown a tall, fine looking » 282 JAMES BLAIR. lad, was with her. She was an admirable hostess, and I met many agreeable and distinguished people at her dinner-parties. There was Senator -, and Judge --, and a batch of lesser honourables. “ She informed me (for I had been some time ab¬ sent from my old location) that her sister Mary had married an intelligent young farmer, and was living with her father in a neat white cottage on the old place. “ Elbridge informed me that his rustic bride had won the love and respect of his relatives at once ;— that she had applied herself diligently to study, and had already made up for the deficiencies in her early education. “‘And I have found/ continued Elbridge, ‘that all things are possible to woman, when she loves with fervour and devotion.’ ” Moore, in one of his poetical, romances, places his princely hero amid roses and enchantments, in the vale of Cashmere,—but for a simple methodist par¬ son, I think I have had my share of romance and poetry,—Love in the Valley of the Juniata. CoRIJTNE. KARL AND CORINNE. By Mas. Mary B. Horton. “All are merry, all are happy, all are loved, in this great city, but one unfortunate! All happy, all gay! And I, with spirit loving all things beautiful, longing for companionship with the gentle and re¬ fined, with the knowledge burning within, that I ( 283 ) 284 KARL AND CORTNNE. might adorn the circle of intelligence, so distant from the sphere I move in, I must live, and grieve and die, in this pent-up atmosphere, with no name in the world’s history, no place in any mortal’s memory!” Oh ! the bitterness of that gifted mind—the crush ing hopelessness of that lonely lot! Worse than the bed of languishing was the sickness which filled that soul; worse than death, far worse, the coldness which w^as creeping over that rich heart! A young girl sat by the window of a low dwelling, in a crowded street. She was a foreigner, with the dark rich beauty of her native land triumphant through the gloom of heavy sadness which rested on her elo¬ quent face. She sat with her head drooping, and her beautiful hands clasped—a picture of hopelessness, lovely even in its colouring of abandonment to the bitter hour. Lonely and touching was that sorrowing one; and when a voice from a bed in one corner of the room faintly called “Corinne,” the struggle she made to overcome the oppression of her spirit, so she might answer the call, composedly gave her high brow a holier charm, and made her seem, in that poor dwell¬ ing, like a mortal type of those who are the invisible agents of heavenly mercy. That was indeed an humble room—a very humble room for genius and beauty to make a home of! No birds w 7 ere there—no flowers—no music from hearts or lips ! Sickness was there, and gloom, old age, and fretfulness, shadows and sigh§! The only sunshine there, was the young girl, in her patient care of her I KARL AND CORINNE. 285 sick mother: she never complained of that. The greatest shadow on the hearth, was that of an old man, sullenly brooding over by-gone days; an old man withered by the going out of fiery youth, when there was no other, inner life, to give a charm and freshness to the aged brow. That shadow was ever on the hearth—her mother’s wandering words ever in her ear. Why wonder that the lonely girl gave vent sometimes to the bitter tide flooding her heart; that she pined for sympathy, as a weary and fainting traveller in a strange land ? The morning upon which that sad soliloquy was breathed, when the heart of the spiritually-longing girl seemed weighed down with a new heaviness, was New Year—“happy New Year;” and she had felt anew how little she was cared for—how little the world possessed of gladness to her, as she heard the noisy greeting of children in the street, and saw the little gifts shown proudly around. She passed from childish joy to the pure pleasure of older minds, re¬ joicing in tokens of affection on this day of festival; and, in her solitude and sadness, envied all sinlessly the blessedness of those remembered by the loving. Yes, ’twas New Year’s day in gay New York. The air was clear and cold—the heavens in a most favourable state for communicating the bright morn¬ ing greeting of gay, generous Old Sol, to our fair Mother Earth. The streets of the famed Gotham rested from th.e constant pressure of loaded drays upon their stony breasts, (forgive me! that I make them so cold-hearted,) and the closed shutters of the ( 286 KARL AND CORINNE. “legion” merchants on Broadway gave silent notice, that young clerks dealt with more animated things that day than measuring-sticks and silks, and were not “ at home” to never so anxious customers. All over the great city, fair maidens and plain, high-born and lowly, were preparing for “calls” ex¬ pected. All over the great city, creation’s lords looked in their mirrors anxiously, and put the finishing grace to whiskers as carefully turned as a lady’s curl. All over the great city, wdiite gloves and well- brushed hats lay upon bachelors’ tables, ready for the hour which Fashion had said was the proper one to commence “ congratulations.” And all over the great city luxuries were laid out, as if the slaves of Aladdin’s lamp had been called upon for a universal feast. Door-bells rung; servant men and maids answer¬ ing them, received large packages and small, all elo¬ quent with compliments and gifts. Fifes were played, drums w r ere beaten, trumpets made their loud alarum through the nurseries of all homes, where baby-boys played war with their new toys; and wonderful was the birth of w r axen beauties, with marvellous blue eyes—out of order soon, from constant using—which made the hearts of baby-girls bound with the embryo emotions of motherly joy. Some young ladies’ hearts were dancing, some trembling hopefully. Some young men’s hearts were delightfully calm and firm, some dreadfully under- KARL AND CORINNE. 287 mined by diffidence and doubt. But all had hope! All? There was no rich table spread in the close room called Corinne’s home. No toilette received her thought—no gift came, with its voice of love, -or friendly interest. She listened to no footstep, for there was none but would pass by. She waited for no fond kiss, for the lips of brother and sister in the wide world’s family were, to her, as if they had been of ice; they were deadly cold to the stranger in the low dwelling! Alone upon the sea of life! with no star in the heaven of hope—no voice on the dreary waste of deep, dark water, to soothe ! Poor girl! Poverty in gold was very light to bear, compared to that dread po¬ verty the soul was crushed by! Her duty was the one object of her life. She freely gave her youth and strength to it; but it made her eye dim sometimes. Her mother, beautiful but weak, had, after her first widowhood, been bought by an old man’s gold. The wealth which bribed her to forget the dead was lost; and she soon sank into a languor of the heart and mind, that made her child’s life a constant sacrifice. The husband, stunned by the fall from affluence to poverty, and with no heart of youth to win back by patience his lost riches, became morose and sullen, leaving to his step-daughter the miserable effort to gain their daily bread. Was not this a home to break the young spirit down? No comfort in her mother’s srnile, for there 288 KARL AND CORINNE. was scarcely a ray of reason in it; and the shadow of that old man, a stranger, as it were, even on her hearth ! She must not leave hei' to die, or him to starve, and so she poured the wealth of her gifted in¬ tellect out lavishly for their sakes, coining her lofty thoughts for food. A few months ago, and they had lived in a sunny land, a land of poetry ; had looked upon a landscape of vineyard, stream, and wood, which they could call their own. And now they were the tenants of a low, mean dwelling, across the waters, over which they had fled in pride and poverty. The mother sickened with the change, and became as helpless as a child; but the old man’s nature turned to hate, for the beau¬ tiful Corinne had been, innocently, the ruin of his house. A young Italian count, wanting in all things ho¬ nourable, had offered the noble girl indignities, which she resented so proudly, with such galling contempt, that his evil nature was excited almost to frenzy, and he determined to bring her down to poverty, if not to shame. It was an important crisis in the stepfather’s affairs, when this bad purpose was resolved upon; and its accomplishment brought bitter trial to the virtuous Corinne. The old man cursed her often as the destroyer of his fortunes—the dark shadow upon his life. She a shadow of evil! Old man, look upon the hearth ! Before the noon of that New Year’s day, a clearer KARL AND CORINNE. *28 paleness stole over the mother’s face—a stranger brightness filled the wandering eye. “ What can it mean?” whispered Corinne’s heart. It means, poor orphan child, that the Author of the life to you so burdensome, is nearing her reward— that the old man brooding selfishly will soon be left a griefless widower, the solitary sharer of your un¬ happy destiny—that while you gaze, the spirit of one that has been immortal is filling with immortality— with visions all too wonderful for speech! And gently, peacefully, the spirit passed from the earthly to the heavenly. Corinne stood by the bed of death, moved by its sanctity, but more envying than grieving, as she saw the calmness settling on those features, so lately troubled with the expression of a fading mind’s unquiet. When her father left her for his better home, Corinne had needed every conso¬ lation ; for to him she owed all the cultivation of her intellect—the best affections of her heart. But her mother’s beauty had been her only dower; and when disease came to her, the weakness of her mind be¬ came more distinct with fading loveliness. Alas I that one who had received the precious gift of an im mortal child, should ever neglect devotion to it, for fond attentions to charms not half so beautiful as a mother’s love ! Yet, as Corinne gazed on her beautiful parent, no longer restless with life, she trusted that the weak¬ ness she had mourned over would be most mercifully dealt with in the great judgment court; for her mo¬ ther had been a petted, darling child, and the sin of % 290 KARL AND CORINNE. selfish vanity must fall more heavily on other heads than hers. Until sunset, the orphan was busy found the dead, who slept so peacefully. The old man made no sign that he was moved by his bereavement, but sat with his forehead upon his hand, as he always sat, and his voice muttering, as it always muttered, dark words against the virtue whose keeping had cast him from his place of honour down—down to the wretched for¬ tunes of that hour. The beauty which he had sought with childish eagerness to win, was like the loveliness of the child whose purity had ruined him ; and so it became hate¬ ful to him. Death upon that white brow could not soften him, for the armour of his soul was of the steel of selfishness; and no dart but that which would de¬ stroy his own mortal nature could pierce it. Corinne had finished the duties which are called sad—she had shrouded the still waving lines of beauty in the last robe—when a knock startled her. It was a strange sound in that dull place, and Corinne hastened to answer it as speedily as if it had been the voice of an angel visitant, whispering “ Let Hope in !” There was no angel visiter upon the threshold as she opened the door; but Hope did come in. A gift was handed her—her, the lonely, the uncared-for! A New Year’s gift! of a valuable Italian work, ele¬ gantly bound, “ A tribute from a friend, who re¬ spected talent and great fidelity.” And the note which accompanied it—how kind, how loving: full KARL AND CORINNE. 291 of warm interest in her history, hinting at present necessity of the writer’s remaining unknown to her; but breathing throughout a half-veiled passion, very like a lover’s. The old man had raised his head anxiously at the sight of the unexpected package; but had bent it again, with something like a groan, as a richly orna¬ mented book alone repaid him for the effort. He thought it might be gold. Oh ! it was gold to one poor heart there ! It was a voice from a human soul—a bright link thrown to her from the social chain, binding her anew to the outer world. It was a gleam of light dancing through all the dark chambers of her soul, giving her new life even in that visiting-place of death. It was true, that she had on that New Year’s day lost all sympathy of blood with the race her mother sprung from; but the long-chilled current of heart had been warmed, and began to flow, as the youthful tide ever should. The icy crust at the fountain head of joy gave way at the warm touch of friendliness. Even her eye was moistened with the sweet waters, so refreshing to her thirsty soul. And when she sat down by her mother’s bed again, she almost trembled at the power a new hope had over her; she almost saddened again, in believing she was cruel to her mother’s memory, in filling her place so soon with a new image. But her parent had been dead to her for months; and the joy of being thought of, loved, had been born to her since the sun rose. We cannot wonder that 20 292 KARL AND CORINNE. the day of festival did not end in such tears as it had opened with. Passionate, gifted, spiritual Corinne Gietti, gave the rich treasure of her unshared thoughts to the au¬ thor of the earnest note lying now close to her heart; and that New Year’s evening, by the departed, re¬ mained for ever clear in the young girl’s memory when time and happiness had faded the impressions of her other lonely hours. “ My poor, poor Karl! What gladness can all this wealth and brightness give me, when my only son, my darling boy, is losing all his nobleness in the love of wine ?” Was there any cause for sorrow on this New Year’s evening in the rich dwelling of Peter Van Schenck? Was the heart of a millionaire troubled as one crushed by poverty? Brilliant were the rooms, and gay the meeting of young friends, in this mansion of a father grieving for his first born. The New Year’s tables were loaded with delicate confections; the fanciful Chinese and antique stands were burdened with costly gifts; dazzling light fell all around, illuminating curtained recesses, rich in cunning bijouterie; and music was there, with flowers, smiles, and their mother— Hope. But a shadow was there; and although the blaze of light might fall directly on that father’s brow, it could not take the shadow off. And though the mo- o ther’s eye sparkled sometimes at one joy left, the light KARL AND CORINNE. 293 could not put out the glimmering of a tear, which trembled on the lashes, dropping often and heavily upon the cheek. And, although the sister shone a gem of beauty beneath the brilliant ray, it could not pierce the inner temple, where lay the ruins of strong affections, and gild them joyfully. A son, an only son—a brother, an only brother— with a warm heart, and intellect refined by a stu¬ dent’s life, had given idolizing friends a taste of sorrow more bitter than that the death-call brings. For many years, young Karl Van Schenck had loved the wine- cup better than the peace of hearts; and on this an¬ nual festival had ever returned at a late hour, and with a polluted brow, to his aristocratic home. The anxious ear of father, mother, sister, had ever caught his well-known sound of the uneven step, as it ap¬ proached their door, and listened, as it slowly, stum- blingly passed over the stairs which led to the erring one’s room. The New Year’s night w T as sure to bring the trembling form, the wandering eye; for the many calls during the exciting day brought many a draught of poison to Karl’s lips. Oh! away with this red snare of wine, which evil lurks in, because it cannot linger amid the fruits and flowers which innocence loves so well! Let it no longer fascinate, with its glowing eye and biting tongue, the sons and brothers, who pass from house to house with the New Year’s congratulations ! Let Nature’s unpolluted gifts, the varied confectionary of ingenious Art, and the cheering contents of the smoking urn, be enough of hospitality, without the ‘294 KARL AND C0R1NNE. luxury which a mistaken generosity offers too easily excited lips ! But what light stronger than the brightness of that artificial day—w r hat joy greater than the youthful hope upon the faces of that gay company—has cast suddenly away the shadow from the father’s brow— has quenched the tear in the mother’s eye—has gilded the ruins in the sister’s heart? Nothing more bright than the presence of a young man, who, pre¬ senting a beautiful boquet to Kate Van Schenck, kissed her cheek lovingly. It was the son—the brother! His eye was clear, his fine form erect, his hand firm and warm, as he grasped his sister’s, with an emphasis that had a world of meaning in it. He met his mother’s eye with the consciousness of its joyful wonder glowing in his face; and sought her side, after due attention to his sister’s guests, with the fervour of a prodigal. He had a gift for both his parents; but what were gifts compared to his dear presence, as he stood there in manly beauty, with reason unwavering—with in¬ tellect unquenched by wine? And oh ! how merrily to them now passed the hours! All was shadowless, now that the light of Karl’s clear eye fell upon the scene. A gleam of joy had come to the rich dwelling, while the beautiful watcher by the untroubled couch dreamed of new life. That night, a strong man bent his knee for the first time before the throne, and asked for strength to over- KARL AND CORINNE. 295 come a foe. It was Karl Van Schenck, sanctifying by earnest prayer his vow of reformation. ’Twas New Year’s evening again. Twelve months had passed since Hope had sent her angels to the poor dwelling of Corinne, and the young Karl’s luxu¬ riant home. The lowly room was desolate now; but again the rich mansion of Peter Van Schenck w^s dazzling with light—again a gay company was assem¬ bled in the spacious rooms. But the rooms were crowded now, and more lavishly adorned with the rare embroidery of flowers. Jewels flashed, feathers kissed snowy necks, rich dresses added grace to lovely forms. All was life, all flutter, all animation. It was a bridal! Whose ? Who was the bride ? The “very beautiful,” whose romantic story was on all lips? Who was it, that bore herself so gracefully, so nobly, before a multi¬ tude of eyes? What made all hearts acknowledge there was worth enough under that gifted brow to equal rank; and wonder not, that the passionate love of such a creature had won a victim from fast-strength¬ ening chains ? It was Corinne !—Corinne, the lonely orphan girl! —who stood now by the side of Karl Van Schenck, the wife, the idol of his soul! It was Corinne ! raised from the darkness of her low home to this brilliancy of fashion and wealth! Corinne! the dreaming watcher —the labourer for bread—now petted by a happy family—now the object of such love as she had longed for in heavily-burdened hours ! i 296 KARL AND CORINNE. And never was there a happier bridal; never was there a lovelier bride known in the proud circle in which the Van Schencks moved. Even the old man, whose shadow had been upon the hearth so long, caught the admiration of the crowd; and made him¬ self useful now in telling how wealthy he had been! and ennobling his beautiful step-daughter’s purity by giving it as the cause of their changed fortunes. The old man’s heart was softened wonderfully by the homage Corinne was now the object of. But how came this all about? One little year ago, and the unknown friend sent his first token of interest—ay, love —to the young fo¬ reigner. One little year ago, that affection was first acknowledged, which had the power to raise the lover from the “downward way” to the glorious height of temperance and prayer. It had proved a more per¬ suasive guide than filial or fraternal love; and led him to his home a changed—a liberated man. All unconsciously Beauty and Genius in Obscurity had brought light and joy to high places clouded by grief Karl had first seen Corinne in the office of the publisher, who accepted her articles to his own profit more than hers. Struck by her peculiar beauty, he had sought all means to know her history, watching her secretly in her regular visits to the publisher, (the only visits she seemed to make,) and strength¬ ening at every sight of her the interest which had been awakened in his heart. He read her eloquent appeals to the wayward, the sinning, the uncharitable of the earth, with wonder- KARL AND CORINNE. % 297 ing admiration and delight. But just lefore that memorable New Year’s day, he had been touched to his very soul by one of her womanly defences of the weak and erring, in which she had declared she would sooner trust the being whose leading passion was the love of wine, than one whose spirit had un¬ truth for its foundation—who steeped his words in sweet deceit, and smoothed his brow with falsehood. There was no hope where beautiful Truth was not permitted to be a guest; but the strong draught did not always or speedily drown the noble sentiments of the soul. Karl felt that she was right—that notwithstanding his years of weakness, the heavenly whisperers were not all hushed—that the refinement of his mind was not yet made gross by the companionship of those who spurned all moralities. There was hope for him; and on the morning of that first New Year, he ear¬ nestly resolved to keep his lip from touching the glass, which might be offered to him during his many calls. When evening came, his lip was pure of the red stain ; and with a hopeful heart he sent his first offer¬ ing to the gentle girl whose image had strengthened him. Corinne was too holy in her loneliness and trials for him to bring shame or sorrow to her, and Karl determined to make her his own wedded wife, if he could win her, after a trial'of his vow of temperance for half a year. He still remained unknown; but the solitary Ita¬ lian constantly received some earnest token that the 298 KARL AND C0RIN NE. one heart in the gay outer world still beat warmly for her—soon would pray for a gift coveted beyond all 'things else. He must have intercourse with her thus to keep his spirit strong. The six months passed away, and the “ unknown,” treasured so faithfully in fancy, had not long to wait for the devoted girl’s declaration that she w^as indeed, in her loneliness, “ all his own.” Her proud spirit could not brook, however, the contempt or condescen¬ sion she might reasonably expect from the wealthy family she must enter, if she wedded^ Karl; and it was not until the loving Kate warmly claimed her as sister, and the parents of her lover blessed her for the joy she had brought their aching hearts, that she was convinced her dower of purity was more costly in their eyes than lands or gold. Corinne would wait until the anniversary of the day so memorable to her, before she gave her hand to Karl, and so on New Year’s night she became a bride. Her husband always blessed her, and turned not back from the upward and onward way she had pointed out. Oh! let not the lowly and the gifted, sorrow that they act no part in the world’s history! Some pity¬ ing, softening word, dropped on man’s heart, may melt it to good deeds, giving new music to the spirit of some loving one, and a new song to angels. THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. Bx Charles Dickens. We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect, among the people whom he “knows by sight,” to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and wretched appearance, whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition; whom he has observed sinking lower and lower by almost imperceptible degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he passes by. Is there any man, who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and poverty, w^as a respectable tradesman, or a clerk, or a man fol¬ lowing some thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means?—or cannot any of our readers call to mind from among the list of their quondam ac- ( 299 ) l I 300 THE DRUNKARDS DEATH. quaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lin¬ gers about the pavement in hungry misery—from whom every one turns coldly away, and who pre¬ serves himself from sheer starvation, nobody knows how~? Alas! sucb cases are of too frequent occur¬ rence to be rare items in any man’s experience; and but too often arise from one cause—drunkenness,— that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that over¬ steps every other consideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and station ; and hurries its victims madly on to degradation and death. Some of these men have been impelled by misfor¬ tune and misery, to the vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will not break the heart, has driven them wild; and they present the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But, by far the greater part have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the £ulf from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until recovery is hopeless. Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of nis dying wife, while his children knelt around, and mingled low bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly fur¬ nished ; and it needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious care, had been busy at the heart for many a weary year. An elderly female, with her face bathed in tears, was sup- THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 301 porting the head of the dying woman—her daughter— on her arm. But it was not towards her that the wan face turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped; they pressed the hus¬ band’s arm; the eyes, so soon to be closed in death, rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the bed of sorrow and death. A shaded lamp by the bedside cast a dim light on the figures around, and left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow. The silence of night pre¬ vailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the chamber. A watch hung over the mantel¬ shelf ; its low ticking was the only sound that broke the profound quiet, but it was a solemn one, for well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit. It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the ap¬ proach of death; to know that hope is gone, and re¬ covery impossible; and to sit and count the dreary hours through long, long nights—such nights as only watchers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest secrets of the heart, the pent-up, hidden secrets of many years, poured forth by the unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think how little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in the 302 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. wanderings of dying men; tales so full ot guilt and crime, that those who 'Stood by the sick person’s couch have fled in horror and affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of deeds, the very name of which has driven the boldest man away. But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed¬ side by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and moanings alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. And when at last the mother’s grasp relaxed, and turning one look from the children to their father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell back¬ ward on the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep. They leaned over her; they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and piercing tones of desperation. But there was no reply. They listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch. That heart was broken, and she was dead! The husband sunk into a chair by the bedside, and clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed from child to child, but when a weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort was whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All shrunk from, and avoided him ; and when at last he staggered from the room, no one sought to follow, or console the widower. The time had been, when many a friend would have crowded round him in his affliction, and many * THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 303 a heartfelt condolence would have met him in his grief. Where were they now? One by one, friends, relations, the commonest acquaintance, even, had fallen off from, and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him m good and evil, in sickness and poverty. And how had he rewarded her ? He had reeled from the tavern to her bedside, in time to see her die ! He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowd¬ ed on his mind. Stupified with drink, and bewil¬ dered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re¬ entered the tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. His blood mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death ! Every one must die, and why not she ? She was too good for him; her relations had often told him so. Curses on them! Had they not deserted her, and left her to whine away the time at home? Well: she was dead, and happy,\ . perhaps. It was better as it was. Another glass— one more—hurrah! It was a merry life while it lasted ; and he would make the most of it. Time went on ; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and were children no longer;—the father remained the same—poorer, shabbier, and more dissolute-looking, but the same confirmed and irre¬ claimable drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him; the girl alone re¬ mained, but she worked hard, and words or blows could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the okbcourse, and a merry life he led. t 304 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. One night, as early as ten o’clock—for the girl had been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public house—he bent his steps homewards, bethinking himself that if he would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. .It was a wet De¬ cember night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down. He begged a few half¬ pence from a passer-by, and having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep the girl alive, if he could) he shuffled onwards, as fast as the wind and rain would let him. At the back of Fleet street, and lying between it and the water-side, are several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars; it was to one or these that he directed his steps. The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and misery, have competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest arid most law¬ less time. The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, were stained with every indescribable hue that long exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements composed origi¬ nally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors were falling from their hinges; poles with lines on which to dry clothes projected from every casement, and sounds of quar¬ relling or drunkenness issued from every room. THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 305 The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out, either by the violences' of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent rea¬ sons for objecting to his residence being rendered too conspicuous; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of the alley—all the sluggish odours of which had been called forth by the rain; and, as the wind whistled through the old houses, the doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their frames, with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the destruc¬ tion of the whole place. The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness, sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at. others, into some branch re¬ positories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what w T as left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers; and he proceeded to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the attic story. He was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a girl, w T hose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that of the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anx¬ iously out. “ Is that you, father?” said the girl. 306 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. / “ Who else should it be ?” replied the man gruffly. “ What are you trembling at? It’s little enough that I’ve had to drink to-day for there’s no drink without money, and no money without work. What the devil’s the matter with the girl?” “I am not well, father—not at all well,” said the girl, bursting into tears. “ Ah!” replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if he could. “ You must get better some how, for we must have money. You must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine. They’re paid for it, damn ’em. What are you standing before the door for ? Let me come in can’t you ?” “Father,” whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing herself before it, “ William has come back.” “Who?” said the man with a start. “ Hush,” replied the girl, “ William; brother Wil¬ liam.” > “ And what does he want ?” said the man, with an effort at composure—“money? meat? drink? He’s come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me the candle—give me the candle, fool—I ain’t going to hurt him.” He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the room. Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 307 old coarse jacket and trousers. He started up when his father entered. “Fasten the door, Mary,” said the young man hastily—“ Fasten the door. You look as if you didn’t know me, father. It’s long enough since you drove me from home: you may well forget me.” “And what do you want here, now?” said the father, seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fireplace. “What do you want here now?” “ Shelter,” replied the son, “ I’m in trouble: that’s enough. If I’m caught I shall swing: that’s certain. Caught I shall be, unless I stop here; that’s as certain. And there’s an end of it.” “ You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murder¬ ing, then?” said the father. “Yes, I do,” replied the son. “Does it surprise you, father?” He looked steadily in the man’s face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground. “Where’s your brothers?” he said, after a long pause. “ Where they’ll never trouble you,” replied his son. “John’s gone to America, and Henry’s dead.” “Dead!” said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not repress. “ Dead,” replied the young man. “ He died in my arms—shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He stag¬ gered back, I caught him, and his blood trickled down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and it blinded him, but he threw him¬ self dowrn on his knees, on the grass, and prayed to 21 308 the drunkard's death. God, that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her prayers for pardon for her youngest son. ‘ I was her favourite boy, Will/ he said, ‘and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying, though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made me so fond of her as to have never once done any thing to bring the tears into her eyes. Oh, Will, why was she taken away, and father left!' There's his dying words, father," said the young man; “ make the best you can of 'em. You struck him across the face, in a drunken fit, the morning we ran away; and here's the end of it." The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro. “ If I am taken," said the young man, “ I shall be carried back into the country, and hung for that man's murder. Thejr cannot trace me here without your assistance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up to justice; but unless you do, here I stop until I can venture to escape abroad." For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indispensably necessary that somebody should go out; and, as the girl was too weak and ill, the father went, just at nightfall. He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, V f * WAiUlEX AXli THE Ofl'lCEIlS, AX THE l’UBLIC HOUSE. (310) Taiu THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 311 he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing wants for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public house. He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned bad: again, lingered once more, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not observed, w^ere on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in despair, when his loitering attracted their attention; and when he en¬ tered the public house they followed him. “ You’ll drink with me, master,” said one of them, proffering him a glass of liquor. “ And me too,” said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was drained of its contents. The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s danger. But they were nothing to the drunk¬ ard. He did drink, and his reason left him. “ A wet night, Warden,” whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at length turned to go way, after spending in liquor one-half of the money on which, perhaps, his daughter’s life depended. “ The right sort of night for our friends, in hiding Master Warden,” whispered the other. “ Sit down here,” said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a corner. “We have been looking arter the young un. We came to tell him it’s all right, now, but we couldn’t find him ’cause we hadn’t got the precise direction. But that ain’t strange, for I don’t think he know’d it himself, when he come to London, did he ?” “ No he didn’t, “ replied the father. 312 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. The two men exchanged glances. “ There’s a vessel down at the docks, to sail at % midnight, when it’s high water,” resumed the first speaker, “and we’ll put him on board. His passage is taken in another name, and what’s better than that, it’s paid for. It’s lucky we met you.” “Very,” said the second. “Capital luck,” said the first, with a wink to his companion. “ Great,” replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence. “ Another glass here; quick!” said the first speaker. • And in five minutes more, the father had uncon¬ sciously yielded up his own son into the hangman’s hands. Slowly and heavily the time dragged along as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place listened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair; it approached nearer; it reached the landing, and the father staggered into the room. The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in another instant the young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed. “Very quietly done,” said one of the men to his companion, “thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom—come, come, come, it’s no use crying, THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 313 young woman. It’s all over now, and can’t be helped.” The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity. “ Listen to me, father,” he said, in a tone that made the drunkard’s flesh creep. “My brother’s blood, and mine, is on your head; I never had a kind look, or word, or care from you, and alive or dead, I never will forgive you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with you, I speak as a dead man now, and I warn you, father, that as surely as you must one day stand before your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you.” He raised his manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room; and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this side of the grave. When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morn¬ ing penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched room, Warden awoke from his heavy .sleep, and found him¬ self alone. He rose and looked around him; the old flock mattrass on the floor was undisturbed; every thing was just as he remembered to have seen it last: there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. He ram- bled through the streets, and scrutinized each wretched 314 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. face among the crowds that thronged them, with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless, and he returned to his garret when night came on, desolate and weary. For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears. At length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in quiet, elsewhere. She had left him at last to starve alone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her! He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself, was spent in the old way. A year passed over his head ; the roof of a jail'was the only one that had sheltered him for many months. He slept under archways, and in brick-fields—any where, where there was some warmth and shelter from the cold and rain. But in the last stage of poverty, disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still. At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door¬ step faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid, his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy, cheerful 315 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. home—and of those who peopled it* and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hungei were gnawing at his heart again. He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through bis frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake, and conscious. The well known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice, rich food—they were before him ; he could see them all—he had but to reach out his hand and take them—and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was com¬ ing upon him by inches—and that there were none to care for or help him. Suddenly, he started up, in the extremity of terror 316 THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark ! A groan !— another ! His senses were leaving him; half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips, and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. He raised his head, and looked up the long, dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dread¬ ful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life ; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that led from the commencement of Waterloo bridge down to the water’s level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath as the patrol passed. Never did pri¬ soner’s heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved ; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet; THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 317 the rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet—so quiet that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rip pling of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole lanquidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fan¬ tastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hol¬ low murmurs from behind urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the river. Not five seconds had passed w^hen he rose to the water’s surface—but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings ! Life—life, in any form,—poverty, misery, starvation —any thing but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore—but one foot of dry ground—he could almost touch the step. One hand’s breadth nearer, and he was saved—but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one in¬ stant—for one brief instant—the buildings on the river’s banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast flying clouds, were distinctly visible—once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before 3 IS THE DRUNKARDS DEATH. his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar. A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disligured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it w r as borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away. * THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. By Amebei* There are scenes of but a few hours’ duration which foreshadow a whole life; and sometimes words spoken carelessly, and in jest, are an index to years of future misery or pain. (319) 320 THE PLEDGE BY MOOLIGHT. One evening a small boat, containing six persons, was descending the Delaware. It was an excursion for pleasure; and amid the soft influence of a sum mer’s moonlight evening, this party—young, gay, of both sexes, and released, for a few hours, from the cares of life, abandoned themselves to unrestrained enjoyment Many a merry song floated on the air, as their boat glided on; and, at intervals, the wild laugh of the heart which has thrown off its care, arose while they listened to a story, or a well told anec¬ dote. Those usually timid or reserved felt at home; and some of those choice spirits, who are the soul of a social party, gave themselves to unrestrained enjoy¬ ment. “ Give us another song, Mary/’ said one of them, to the favourite songstress of the party. Do—just one; something lively, and none of those that make one feel as though he was in the land of darkness and melancholy.” Urged by the others, she complied, and sang a song of her own composing, beginning with the words,— “ Come, pledge me now thy hand and heart, That changeless still through weal or woe, &c.” All applauded this song except her brother. Feel¬ ing mischievous, he said— “ Why, Mary—after all, this is a sad song. Every note rings with the sad changes of life, among which you wish us to pledge ourselves changeless. Give us a really pleasant one.” “ I’ll sing no more,” answered his sister. 321 THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. “ Do- —just a little one.” “ Don’t gratify him,” said a young man, named Rubicon “ If that song can’t please him, none ever will.” “ I like to hear about the changes of life,” said another young man. The others laughed at this apparently silly expres¬ sion ; but, without heeding their mirth, the speaker leaned upon his arm at one end of the boat, and continued— “ I don’t believe in the philosophy which would teach us to sigh because w T e are older to day than we were yesterday; or, forsooth, that we do not dream about fairy-land, as we did at sixteen. Go ahead, without looking behind, is my motto. I’ll pledge a glass of wine with any one here, that ten years from to-night, if living, I’ll be wiser, more contented, and wealthier than I am now, leaving losses by accidents out of the question.” “ What do you call accidents ?” said Rubicon. “ Fire, freshet, thieves, and such like.” “ Better include life itself among them,” said Mary’s brother, named Morris. “That’s no accident,” replied the other. “You are always turning things into ridicule, Morris. But permit me to explain. I say, that if allowed to pur¬ sue the even tenor of my way, for ten years, I will be better, in all respects, than I am at present. Who’ll pledge with me?” “ All of us,” exclaimed the group, delighted at so novel a proposition. 323 THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT, “ Let’s understand what we are going to do, Smith,” said Rubicon. “Let each one wish for the greatest good which he hopes to attain in ten years; and then our pledge will be a kind of vow that we are resolved to have it.” “Agreed, agreed!” exclaimed the others. “Bring out the wine.” Glasses and decanters were soon pro¬ duced. “ Harriet must pledge first,” said Morris, handing her the wine. “ I don’t know what to say,” exclaimed the girl, holding the glass in her hand, and laughing. “ Say any thing—tell us what you wish, to be ten years hence.” “ Well, I wish I was a fairy.” There was a shout of merriment. “ You are spilling the wine in my boots,” Smith said, dolefully. “Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Morris. “That’s a fine commencement for your project, Smith.” “ Come, pledge, Harriet; give us a sensible wish.” “ Haven’t I ?” said the gay girl. “ I wish to be a fairy ten years from this, and be no older than 1 am now, and roam all day among sunshine and flowers, and hear the little slave fairies singing round me, and never have a shade of sorrow on my brow, and-” “That’s enough,” groaned Morris. “ Is that your pledge?” asked Smith. “ To be sure it is.” “It won’t be realized.” “ I don’t care.” THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. 323 “Well, you’re a curious girl. Let’s hear Miss Southey’s wish.” She took the proffered glass, and, raising it to her lips, said, “ I wish for wealth. I pledge to night for future affluence.” “ I was thinking about that myself, Alice,” said Morris, laughing. “ Now for Mary’s wish!” exclaimed Smith, rub¬ bing his hands. “ Excuse me,” she said, with evident embarrass¬ ment ; “ I do not use wine.” “ Don’t use wine !” cried Rubicon. “ Why, what’s the matter, Mary ?” “ Neither wine nor strong drink,” replied her bro¬ ther, “ever passes those pure lips. They are an abomination to her. She’s a Rechabite. It would astonish you to hear her lecture against tavern-keep¬ ers and rum-drinkers.” “ I do not lecture, brother,” Mary said. “ But you will pledge with us?” exclaimed Smith. “ Without drinking?” “ If you prefer doing so.” “ Well, I wish to be happy.” “We all wish that, Mary. Try again.” “ I wish we all may be happy.” “ That’s the same wish, multiplied by six. Try again.” There was a pause. The girl, still embarrassed, appeared to be summoning courage for another effort. In this interval, her brother leaned over to Smith, and whispered, loud enough to be heard by all— 22 i 324 THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. “You don’t know how clear her intellect is when she ain’t on a batter .” “Nonsense, Morris,” said his companion. “Do quit your mischief.” “I wish,” said Mary, “that we may all meet to¬ gether at the end of ten years, and be as happy as we are now.” “Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Morris. “Ain’t that a bright thought! Can’t leave the happy off, you see.” “ I think it’s a very good wish,” exclaimed Rubi¬ con. Smith said the same. “ Now for our pledges,” added the latter, offering the glass to Rubicon. “ I wish,” said the young man, “ to become the first in my profession.” He was a law r yer. “And a seat in Congress?” asked Morris. “ That may be included.” “ I wish,” said Morris, as the w r ine w r as offered to him, “ that I may ahvays be as merry as I am now\” “ And laugh at people as you do now ?” asked - Smith. “ Certainly. That’s part of the wish.” “ It’s a very bad one,” said Rubicon. “ Do not wish that, brother,” Mary said, laying her hand on his shoulder. “ Well, for your sake, Mary, I will leave the laugh¬ ing out. Now Smith, for yours—it will be a grand one, too.” “ I wish for success in business,” he replied, emp tying his glass. THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. 325 “ Why, that’s the same as Rubicon’s, only substi¬ tuting merchant for lawyer. “ It’s the one I started with,” replied Smith, “and the only one I intended to give. And now, as we are all through, let us mark the wish, the day, and date, in our journals when we get home, and look at it every year, when the same day comes round.” “ A grand way to keep up old acquaintance,” an¬ swered Rubicon. “ Why have none of you wished for a good wife ?” exclaimed Alice Southey. “ Because we can get one without wishing,” re¬ plied Morris. There was a faint laugh. “ I wonder what the man in the moon would wish if he saw us to-night,” said Smith. “ He would wish,” answered Rubicon, “ that that little party down there in the boat were not so deeply under lunar influence.” “I think he would wish,” said Mary, “that we might not be disappointed in our wishes.” Such, in substance, is a portion of the conversation with which the little party beguiled the time as their boat floated down the Delaware. It may be trifling or silly—and how often is the conversation of young persons, during a whole evening, supremely silly— yet it at least originated in a solemn feeling—the de¬ sire prevalent in every one’s bosom, to catch a glimpse of the future, and, if possible, read concerning what is still to befall him in life. And may we crave the reader’s indulgence while, in a few words, we tell how the wish of each was accomplished? I 326 THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. “The times of 1837” is an expression which, in this country, conjures up to thousands of families, spectacles of distress and ruin. During the four years in which the great financial embarrassment continued, merchants failed under heavy liabilities, professional men were dismissed from office, wealthy men, of long standing, became poor in a day, mechanics roamed despairing from town to town, begging for employment. Business and credit were equally stagnated. In the summer of 1840, during the great, presiden¬ tial canvass, which signalized that year, a small steam¬ boat started from Philadelphia, having on board a number of plainly dressed men, most of them mecha¬ nics. Some held in their hands fishing lines, others baskets, with various kinds of wares, and a few car¬ ried bundles of the daily papers. One man, who had evidently seen better days, stood with his arms folded, looking out upon the river. He spake at intervals with a friend who sat beside him. After the boat had been out about half an hour, he turned to the other and said— “ Twelve years ago, while on a sailing party, in this same spot, I wished for success in business.” “ And with every prospect of success V 9 said his friend. “Yes; I w r as sure of it—too sure. And see what I am to-day.” Other words of conversation followed. Two or three men who sat near, overheard them, and appeared to listen. Both the speakers resumed their silence, and THE PLEDGE B V MOONLIGHT. 327 the boat moved on. At length the man who had first spoken, passed to another quarter of the boat, and, seating himself, began to arrange some fishing tackle. At that moment, a man, whose countenance ex¬ hibited fine intellectual features, though evidently abused by indulgence in drinking, approached, and sat down beside him. “ Is your name Smith ?” inquired the stranger. 44 Yes, sir.” “ Mine is Rubicon.” The man dropped his lines. “ John Rubicon?” he inquired, with a wild expression of countenance. “ Yes,” replied the other, seizing the proffered hand. 44 1 am one of those who pledged their wishes with you, twelve years ago.” 44 And is Morris still living ?” Smith asked. 44 No; he died miserably, in an almshouse.” 44 Poor fellow ! He was a merry soul. I loved to hear his loud laugh, although he used to ridicule me. Every body seemed to like him, although he joked at the expense of all. What caused his death ?” 44 Drinking rum. He became so low as to associate with the vilest loafers, and to lie all night in alleys or gutters.” 44 Poor Mary!” answered Smith; 44 it must grieve her sadly.” 44 It don’t grieve her now,” replied Rubicon. 44 She was buried four years ago. If there be any truth m people dying with broken hearts, she died with one. It was not her own fault, poor thing.” 328 THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. “ She was a sweet girl,” said Smith, with a sigh. “ So harmless, too. I used to think if any one was ever sent to this world to make others happy, it was she.” “ Do you remember her wish ?” asked Rubicon. “ I remember it. It has not been accomplished.” “ What a wild girl Harriet was!” “ Yes; I remember, she wished to be a fairy.' Do you know what became of her?” “ She married a worthless sot. Her disposition, you know, was not like Mary’s. The two quarreled, and at length parted. Harriet, herself, began to drink hard. Indeed, she had always been too fond of wine. She became a loathsome object, and at last died of typhus fever—so the physician said. I never heard what became of her husband.” “ And do you know any thing about Alice Southey?” A strange expression of mingled grief and remorse passed over Rubicon’s countenance. He paused, hesitated, and turned pale. Smith almost involun¬ tarily repeated his question. “ She was my wife, George.” There was a silence of many minutes. Smith spoke first. “ So we two only are left of all that gay evening party. Even we are changed, John.” “ I am,” replied Rubicon, bitterly. “ For six years I struggled—struggled manfully for eminence in my profession. It was vain. All my plans and exertions were frustrated. A viper had twined around my ex- THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. 329 istence, which paralyzed my arm, and poisoned my hopes. It was the wine cup, Smith, the wine cup! Ah! if I had wished to be delivered from it, and kept my wish!” “ But you have reformed ?” “ Do not mock me, Smith. To-day I have reformed, and yesterday, because my last cent is gone. I could tell you that would make you pity me.” “ And why don’t you reform ?” “ Ask the Delaware why it still flows onward.” “Listen, my friend,” said Smith. “I, too, was a drunkard, even to the last stage of drunkenness. I felt in despair, as you do. One night I went to a meeting of the Washingtonians. Many told how they had reformed, and, at last, I know not how, I stepped forward and signed the pledge. ‘Fool,’ I said to my self, as I went out,‘ you will break it to-morrow morn¬ ing.’ I have kept it faithfully until this day. The Washingtonians aided me to get work, and, until lately, I made a comfortable living, even during these hard times. Let me entreat you, Rubicon, to sign the tee-total pledge. There is virtue in it.” “ It’s useless,” said the other, with a sigh. “ I could never keep it.” His friend entreated; but the unhappy man, though still alive to the finer feelings which had distinguished him in a better day, shook his head sorrowfully. The conversation lagged, and was dropped. At the first stopping-place, Rubicon arose to leave the boat. He shook hands with his former friends, spoke a few words, and stepped ashore. As the boat pushed off, 330 vf THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT. Smith watched him slowly ascending the w’harf, with feeble and irregular step. How strange the contrast between the gay com¬ pany, pledging their hopes by moonlight, and the two poor wanderers, parting with each other on the shores of the Delaware ! i (332) JAM£S boyntow axtkh his fall STEPS TO RUIN. By Mrs Jane C. Campbell. Of all the woe, and want, and wretchedness, which awaken one’s compassion; of all the scenes of misery which call so loudly for sympathy, there is none that so harrows up the feelings as the drunkard’s home ! Look at him who began life with the love of friends, the admiration of society, the prospect of extensive usefulness; look at him in after years, when he has learned to love the draught, which, we shudder while we say it, reduces him to the level of a brute. Where is now his usefulness? Where the admiration, where the love that once were his? Love! none but the r love of a wife, or a child, can cling to him in his degradation. Look at the woman who, when she re¬ peated “ for better for worse,” would have shrunk with terror had the faintest shadow of the “ worse” fallen upon her young heart. Is that she who, on her bridal dav, was adorned with such neatness and taste? Ah me ! what a sad change! And the children, for whom he thanked God at their birth; the little ones, of whom he had been so proud, whom he had dandled on his knees, and taught to lisp the endearing name ( 333 ) 334 STEPS TO RUIN. of father. See them trembling before him, and en¬ deavouring to escape his violence ! Look at the empty basket, and the full bottle—the natural wants of the body denied to satisfy the unnatural cravings of a depraved appetite ! Oh God, have pity upon the drunkard’s home ! The picture is a sad one; and who that looks upon it but would fearfully turn aside from the first step to ruin ? We, too, have a tale to tell, which, it pains us to acknowledge, contains more truth than fiction. James Boynton was the first born of his parents, and a proud and happy mother was Mrs. Boynton, when her friends gathered around her to look at her pretty babe. Carefully was he tended, and all his infantile winning ways were treasured as so many proofs of his powers of endearment. In wisdom has the Almighty hidden the deep se¬ crets of futurity from mortal ken. When the mother first folds her infant to her heart, could she look through the long vista of years, and see the suffering, the sin, the shame, which may be the portion of her child, would she not ask God in mercy to take the infant to himself? Would she not unrepiningly, nay, thankfully, bear all the agony of seeing her little one, with straightened limbs, folded hands, and shrouded form, carried from her bosom to its baby-grave? And yet, not one of all the thousands who are steeped in wickedness and crime, but a mother’s heart has glad¬ dened when the soft eye first looked into hers, and the soft cheek first nestled on her own. And, still STEPS TO RUIN. 335 more awful thought! not one of all these Pariahs of society but has an immortal soul; to save which, the Son of God left his glory, and agonized upon the cross ! James grew up a warm-hearted boy, and among his young companions was a universal favourite. “ Jim Boynton is too good-natured to refuse doing any thing we ask,” said Ned Granger one day to a school-fel¬ low, who feared that James would not join a party of rather doubtful character, which was forming for what they called a frolic. And this the truth. Here lay the secret of James Boynton’s weakness—he was too good-natured; for this very desirable, and truly amiable quality, unless united with firmness of cha¬ racter, is often productive of evil. But we pass over his boyish life, and look at him in early manhood. He had a fine figure, with a handsome, intelligent countenance; and his manners have received their tone and polish from a free intercourse in refined circles. He passed his college examination with credit to himself, but, from sheer indecision of character, hesitated in choosing a profession. At this time, an uncle, who resided at the South, was about retiring from mercantile life, and he proposed that James should enter with him as a junior partner, while he would remain for a year or two to give his nephew the benefit of his experience. The business was a lucrative one, and the proposal was accepted. James left his home at the North, and went to try his fortune amid new scenes and new temptations. His uncle received him warmly, for the old man had 336 STEPS TO RUIN. no children of his own, and James was his godchild, His uncle’s position in society, and his own frank and gentlemanly demeanour, won him ready access to the hospitality of Southern friends, and it was not Jong before he fell in love with a pretty orphan girl, whom he frequently met at the house of a common acquaintance. That the girl was portionless, was no demerit in his uncle’s eyes. Not all his trea¬ sures, and they were large, had choked the avenues of the old man’s heart, and the young people were made happy by his approval of their union. After a visit to his friends in the North, James re¬ turned w T ith his bride; and, in a modern house, fur¬ nished with every luxury, the happy pair began their wedded life. And now, who so blessed as Boynton ? Three years passed away, and two children make their home still brighter. Does no one see the cloud, not bigger than a man’s hand, upon the verge of the moral horizon ? Boynton’s dislike to saying “ no,” when asked to join a few male friends to dinner, or on a party of pleasure; his very good nature, which made him so desirable a companion, were the means of leading him to the steps to ruin. “ Come, Boynton r another glass.” “Excuse me, my dear fellow, I have really taken too much already.” “Nonsense! It is the parting glass, you must take it.” And Boynton, wanting firmness of character, yielded to the voice of the tempter. Need we say STEPS TO RUIN. 337 that, with indulgence, the love of poison was strength¬ ened ? For a while the unfortunate man strove to keep up appearances. He was never seen during the day in a state of intoxication; and from a doze on the sofa in the evening, or a heavy lethargic sleep at night, he would awake to converse with his friends, or at¬ tend at his counting-room, without his secret habit being at all suspected. But who that willingly dallies with temptation can fortell the end? Who can “lay the flattering unction to his soul,” that in a downward course he can stop when he pleases, and, unharmed, retrace his steps? Like the moth, circling nearer and nearer to the flame, until the insect falls with scorched wing, a victim to its own temerity, so will the pinions of the soul be left scathed and drooping. Soon Boynton began to neglect his business, and was secretly pointed out as a man of intemperate habits. At last he was shunned, shaken off, by the very man who led him astray. Who are most guilty? Let Heaven judge. Let us pause, and ask why it is, that so many look upon a fellow r being verging to the brink of ruin, without speaking one persuasive word, or doing one kindly act, to lead him back to virtue ? Why it is, that w r hen fallen, they thrust him farther down by taunting and contempt. Oh, such w r as not the spirit of Him who came “ to seek and save that which was lost,” such was not the spirit of Him who said, “ neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more.” How often, instead of throwing the mantle of charity 338 STEPS TO RUIN. over a brother’s sin, instead of telling him his fault, “between thee and him alone,” it is bared to the light of day, trumpeted to a cold and censure-loving world, until the victim either sinks into gloomy de¬ spondency, and believes it hopeless for him to attempt amendment, or else stands forth in bold defiance, and rushes headlong to his ruin, not one human being stands so perfect in his isolation, as to be wholly un¬ moved by contact with his fellows! what need then,’ for the daily exercise of that godlike charity which “suffereth long and is kind,” which “ rejoiceth not in iniquity,” which “beareth all things, believeth all things, endureth all things !” Seven years have gone with their records to eter¬ nity ; where is James Boynton now? In one room of a miserable dilapidated tenement, inhabited by many victims of poverty and vice, lives he who on his wed¬ ding day entered a home which taste and luxury ren¬ dered enviable. Squalor and discomfort are on every side. His four children are pale and sickly from want of proper food, and close confinement in that deleterious atmosphere, they have learned to hide away when they hear their father’s footsteps, for, alas! to his own, he is no longer the good-natured man. Fallen in his own esteem, frequently the subject of ribald mirth, his passions have become inflamed, and he vents his ill-nature on his defenceless family. He no longer makes even a show of doing something for their support; and to keep them from starving, his wife works whenever, and at whatever she can find employment. STEPS TO RUIN. 339 A few years more, and where is Mrs. Boynton? Tremble ye who set an example to your families of which you cannot foretell the consequences! Tremble ye whom God has made to be the protectors, the guides, the counsellors, of the woman ye have vowed to love and cherish! Mrs. Boynton, like her husband has fallen. In an evil hour, harassed by want, ill- used by her husband, she tasted the fatal cup. It produced temporary forgetfulness, from which she awoke to a sense of shame and anguish. Ah! she had no mother, no sister, no women friends, who truly cared for her, to warn, to plead, to admonish; again was she tempted, again she tasted, and that squalid home was rendered tenfold more wretched, by the absence of all attempt at order. However great may be the sorrow and distress occasioned by a man’s love of drink, it is not to be compared to the deep wretchedness by the same cause in a woman, and it is matter for thankfulness, that so few men draff down their wives with them in their fall. Providence raised up a friend who took the bare¬ footed children of the Boyntons from being the daily witnesses of the evil habits of their parents; and so dulled were all the finer feelings of nature, that James Boynton parted from them without a struggle. Like the Lacedemonians of old, who exposed the vice to render it hateful in the eyes of the beholders, we might give other and more harrowing scenes from real life; but let this one suffice ! Thank God, for the change which public opinion has already wrought! Thank God, for the efforts which have been made 23 340 STEPS TO RUIN. to stay the moral pestilence! Oh, it is fearful to think how many homes have been desolate—how many hearts have been broken—how many fine minds have been ruined—how many lofty intellects have been humbled ! It is fearful to think of the mad¬ ness—the crime—the awful death—which follow the Steps to Ruin! NED SUMMERS, THE CABIN-BOY. By Ameril. A LARGE vessel, gliding calmly upon the placid waters of a southern sea, is a beautiful object; and w hen those on board, gathered within a little world of their own, associate in groups upon the deck, telling ( 341 ) 342 NED SUMMERS tales of home, or gazing upon the waste of waters, the picture seems too lovely and romantic for a scene of real life. The afternoon sun of a summer day, on the seas of India, shone on such a scene. Captain Charles Giddings, with a full crew and several passengers, was returning from a voyage to Calcutta. The ship scarcely moved upon the waters, and all the softness of a tropical clime, pervaded the quiet air. Every one was upon deck—some reading, some leaning over the ship’s side, looking into the waters, some collected in groups, talking or reclining silently on couches. The captain, the first mate, and the cabin- boy were together, regulating the compass, which had been injured by a fall. In an arm-chair, not far from these three, sat the mate’s daughter, a young woman of nineteen, reading. Between this young lady and the cabin-boy an intimacy had sprung up during the voyage, which appeared in a fair way to ripen into a feeling stronger than mere affection. This the father had not discouraged, but, on the contrary; had often been heard to say, that of all the young men whom he knew, none was more esteemed by him than Ned Summers, the cabin-boy. This was the first time that Mary Harper, the mate’s daughter, had been at sea. The interests of her mother’s family had alone induced her to under¬ take it; for her only brother had been lost in a storm some five years before; since which she had enter¬ tained an instinctive dread of the ocean. Her unex¬ pected acquaintance with Ned had, however, tended NED SUMMERS. 343 to modify this dread, and, in his company she forgot the dangers of the watery element, or the memory of frightful tales concerning storms and shipwrecks. During the afternoon she had amused her companion by reading from a collection of tales and poetry ; and, soon as he was relieved from the task of arranging the compass, he again seated himself beside her on a broken cask, and listened while she resumed a half- finished tale. They were interrupted by the tones of some one singing. “ Let us listen,” said Mary, closing her book. Ned would have rather heard her read the tale; but as she arose, he joined her, and walked towards the ring which the passengers had formed around the singer. “ I know that song,” said Mary; “brother and I used to sing it together.” Ned turned towards her, and saw that a shade of sorrow had gathered round her former playful fea¬ tures. Wishing to change the conversation, he re¬ plied— “ Let us listen—he is going to sing again.” “ I do not wish to hear any more,” she answered, turning away. “ Do you never feel afraid upon the sea, Ned ?” “ No, I do not. During more than four years I have acted as cabin-boy; and now I am as much at home in a ship as on land.” 1 “ I wish I could say so,” Mary answered ; “ but I am a foolish creature about water. I would die of mere fright in a storm—that I know well. Besides, 344 NED SUMMERS. Ned, something seems to tell me that this voyage will not be a lucky one. Who knows but that after coming so far to seek a fortune, I may find only a grave ?’ There was something so sad in these words that Ned, for some moments, could not reply. But at last, while a shade of sympathy passed over his rough features, he answered— “ I am not afraid of that, Mary. What chance is there of a storm, when the weather has been fine for so many weeks? Even if there should be one, our ship was never in better condition, nor our offi¬ cers more vigilant .’ 7 “But you told me yourself, Ned, that a storm is always more violent after a long calm.” “So I did, Mary; but-” He paused, and looked at her in hesitation. “Well, never mind, Ned,” she said, in a livelier tone. “ I am timid and foolish, that I know; but as you are a better sailor than I am, I will trust in your skill.” Ned was about to reply, when the mate called him. Mary resumed her seat in the chair, and occupied the time in watching the operations of the crew. She was interrupted by her father’s voice. “ Why, captain, the barometer is falling!” “ Falling, sir?” replied Captain Giddings. “ Yes, sir—and rather rapidly, too.” “I was afraid of it,” whispered the captain, as he approached. “ A storm has been gathering for seve¬ ral days, exactly as it did this time last year, while NED SUMMERS. 345 we were bearing west from Java Let the boatswain call all hands to duty.” In a moment every thing was in activity, where formerly there was languid indifference. The pas¬ sengers retired to the cabins, the sails were taken in, and the rigging made fast and trim for weathering the storm. As if by magic, the ship was divested of its gallant appearance, and lay a motionless hull, with bare spars, upon the still bosom of the ocean. There was something sublime in the calmness with which each man stood at his post, and, without speaking, gazed over the waters for the coming of the hurricane. “How is the barometer now, sir?” inquired the captain. “ Risen, slightly,” replied the mate. “ Well, don’t let’s wait for danger. And by-the- by, a little brandy will do us no harm, whether the storm comes or not.” He walked towards his desk as he spoke, and raising the lid, brought out a decan- I ter. Pouring out a glass full, he offered it to the mate. When sober, Captain Giddings was an able officer, and a kind man; when intoxicated, he was obstinate, passionate, and brutal. He could, however, indulge moderately in drink, without its affecting materially his disposition or his official skill; but, unfortunately, after taking liquor, he often went beyond the bounds of moderation, and became either helplessly, or brutally drunk. The mate knew this well; and, though he was himself addicted to drinking, he re¬ coiled from the thought of indulging his appetite, on 346 NED SUMMERS. the eve of a tropical storm. He respectfully declined the proffered glass. “ Nonsense!” said the captain. “You will feel the want of it in a dashing sea.” “Excuse me, captain,” the mate replied. “We shall want clear heads if the storm is like the one we had last year.” “ Then I suppose,” said the captain,laughing, “you would advise me not to drink.” “I would, sir, with all respect. There will be time to drink to-morrow.” “Well, mate,” replied the captain, “I don’t know what ails you; but as to myself, I have no fears of the wildest storm that ever raged in the Indian sea. This ship will weather it—that I feel certain of. So here is to your health.” As he spoke, he swallowed the brandy. Still the storm delayed. The men resumed their gaiety, jesting with each other, or singing among the shrouds. The cabin-boy found a spare moment to run below deck; and from every face, save that of the mate, the previous anxiety had departed. The cap¬ tain emptied another glass of brandy. Then, turn¬ ing to Ned, who had just returned to the deck, he exclaimed— “Ned, are you afraid of the storm ?” “ No, indeed, sir,” replied the cabin-boy. “ With our good ship and our good captain, I think we may brave it.” “There!” rejoined the captain, turning to the NED SUMMERS. 347 mate, “ that’s the language I like to hear from my crew!” The mate nodded, without speaking; but in his features was a shade of mortified dignity. Turning to the cabin-boy, he whispered a few w r ords in his ear. “ I don’t know what ails her, sir,” Ned replied in a low tone. “ It worries me to hear her speak of her brother, and then of the coming storm, as though there was some connection between them. I tried to comfort her, but couldn’t.” “We must do our duty to night,” said the mate, with a solemn voice. Ned looked at him with astonishment. Neither of them spoke again ; but the impression of those few words, whose meaning was deeper than their utter¬ ance, remained with him throughout the night. The captain swallowed another half-pint of brandy. The storm still delayed —all at once Captain Gid- dings exclaimed— “ What’s the use in waiting so long for a blow ! Hoist the topsails!” Every one started. “ For heaven’s sake, not now, captain!” said the mate, touching his hat. “ Sir!” said the other, “I am master of this vessel! We have been waiting here like fools, for nearly two hours, just because somebody bewitched the barometer.” “ Let me entreat you-” “ Hoist the topsails, I say!” 348 NED SUMMERS. “ Only delay one hour, sir,” implored the mate. The captain stamped his foot upon the deck, and, with an oath, repeated the command. It was obeyed. “ Now let the storm come !” said the half drunken man. There was a deep pause. Old sailors cast ominous looks towards the west, where the sun was just set¬ ting ; and the mate, folding his arms, walked thought¬ fully backward and forward, with his eyes fixed upon the deck. An oppressive stillness was in the air; low, moaning sounds came, at times, across the waters ; and from the bank of clouds which lay piled upon each other near the horizon, red hazy mists shot up, which seemed to spread like a shroud of blood over the whole face of the sky. The sea seemed molten glass, and the ship was buoyed up upon its surface. But the storm was coming. Though the sun went down in fire, the sky was rapidly disappearing behind the clouds, and the air suddenly grew black as mid¬ night. Any one who has been in the Indian seas, or even among the groups of the Western archipelago, know what such changes portend. The mate, rousing from his revery, cast one glance across the water, and then hurried towards the captain. “ For heaven’s sake, captain, order the sails to be handed !” Scarcely were the words uttered, when a rustling sound, like that of a deep wood, stirred by the wind, was heard. The mate clenched his hands with a look of agony; and sailors who had grown gray NED SUMMERS. 349 among the tropics, held their breath, and grasped with convulsive energy a rope or a mast. In the next moment, sails and rigging were whirled into the clouds; and the ship, as though struck by a battery of guns, went careering on over the waters, cracking and starting at every seam. For a few moments all was still. Then came another blast, tearing and shrieking among the cordage; and before the men could utter a cry of horror, a third one struck the devoted ship, bearing away the main topmast, and causing the mizen mast, to crack like the report of a cannon. Every eye was raised, with an expression of horror, towards the tottering spar. It swayed for an instant, with the motion of the ship; but the next, with a fearful crash, it came down over the vessel’s side. Then for the first time arose wailings of agony as strong men, clenching still the ropes which had deceived them, were hurried on through the foaming waters. During this scene the captain was hopelessly drunk. His orders were of the most contradictory nature, and he seemed to have lost all the clear-sighted skill which distinguished him at other times. The sailors soon perceived his condition. Every eye was di¬ rected towards the mate as a last resource. He ven¬ tured to assume the command. The hands obeyed with alacrity; and very soon the broken mast had been cut away, the other spars strengthened, and every shred of sail removed. But the storm had only commenced. As it gathered darker and wilder around the devoted ship one after 350 NED SUMMERS. # another of the crew was swept away, and the masts creaked fearfully while the hurricane swept by them. Before nine o’clock, the rudder was broken, and the vessel became unmanageable. Then the scene be¬ came a terrible one. The once gallant bark, with its freight of human souls, rushing headlong before the storm; the hoarse words of command; the shrieks of some wretch, hurried from his post to a watery grave; the din of voices from the cabin; the crack¬ ing of spars; the howlings of the storm—rose amid that night’s gloom, like the revel of the spirits, who, as is fabled, exult over the miseries of mankind. But a wilder scene was to follow. Hitherto the passengers had remained below. Now they rushed together upon the deck, shrieking, wringing their hands, and praying for help. Some were induced to retire, but the remainder running from place to place with frenzied gestures, mingled their cries for help with the noise of the tempest. Sometimes a wave ■broke over the deck and bore with it one of their number; but the survivors merely crowded closer to¬ gether, thus rendering their own destruction more easy. A few clasped the captain’s knees and begged him to save them; strong men seized a rope or a spar, and clung to it with looks of despair; women rolled helplessly over the heaving deck, or hung shrieking round the forms of those they loved. Over this uproar, a loud voice was heard, “ The ship has sprung a leak !” All hands were called to the pumps. Men who had been nursed in Oriental luxury, bared their arms, NED SUMMERS. 351 and worked with the energy of life; even women at times assisted. The mate moved from group to group encouraging them by his voice and example. The water in the hold decreased; and as a few trusty hands endeavoured to repair the breach, the mate ex¬ claimed in a voice of hope :— “Work merrily, lads! If we can arrest the leak all may go well, our ship is still strong!” They worked as men do, when they toil for life. Amid the excitement of partial success, the noise of the storm was for a while unheeded, and each seemed inspired with new life. Suddenly a terrific crash was heard; the ship pitched almost upon her larboard side ; and through the started planks came the surge, like a cataract, flooding the hold, overthrowing and t stifling those nearest to it, and rendering all effort at the pumps useless. Then, strong hearts, which had braved all previous danger without shrinking, rushed on deck, and flinging their arms towards heaven, shrieked a prayer for mercy. The mainmast had fallen. “ Let down the boats!” cried the mate. The first boat was soon on the waves. Men and women crowded into it, falling over each other, and pushing weaker ones to a watery grave. Though it was in a moment filled to suffocation, others held in agony to the ropes, till rude hands flung away their arms, and severing the cords, launched into the deep. At that moment another voice arose. “We are among breakers!” It was so. The boat, with all its freight, was 352 NED SUMMERS. sucked within the foaming vortex, spun round and round, and sunk. “The ship has struck!” shouted another. Then arose once more the maddening cry of de¬ spair, and each clutched, as he could, some fragment which might buoy him on the waves, after the ship should go down. “The life-boat! the life-boat!” was now the cry, and many rushed towards it. And where, amid these scenes, was Mary Har¬ per? There are a few among the walks of life, who, though usually weak and timid, yet, in the hour of danger, display a calmness and heroism, which ap¬ pear miraculous to persons of ordinary courage Mary was one of these. She had dreaded the storm before it approached; but when it was around her, she heard, without shrieking, the wind, the falling timbers, and the uproar on deck. Her thoughts were on her father and on Ned. When the ship struck the cabin-boy was by her side. His words could not be heard amid the uproar, but he grasped her form tightly with one arm, while with the other he held to the remaining mast. “ Come to the life-boat,” she at length heard him say. They sprang forward. It was full, but some held out their arms for the girl. She drew back, and looked at Ned. “ Cut the ropes!” shouted those in the boat. “Go, Mary,” said Ned, “there is not room for both.” NED SUMMERS 353 “ And must you stay here ?” “ Do not think of me, Mary.—Wait, oh, wait one moment!” he shouted to the men. Mary turned away. “ I will stay w r ith you, Ned,” she whispered, as the boat was hurried off. “I am not afraid to die!” By this time the ship w T as fast sinking. Those who remained on board had lashed themselves to large pieces of timber as their only chance for safety. The mate, unable to find his daughter, and thinking that both she and Ned had been cast away, seized a part of the mainmast. The cabin-boy still held to Mary, clasping her waist with one arm, and with his other 354 ^ ED SUMMERS. hand holding one of hers. For a little while, no voice was heard. It was the silence of men, sternly wait¬ ing the approach of death. A huge wave broke over the deck. Some went with it into the ocean, others were thrown down, or rolled over the sides, which they grasped and clung to. Ned was thrown senseless against the stump of one of the masts. When he arose, the wave had passed. He called on the name of Mary, but she had gone to mingle with the many who, during that fear¬ ful night, were called from health and happiness to a grave in the ocean. Ignorant of her fate, he ran wildly along the deck, calling upon her name, and searching every part that the w T ater had not flooded. Then a stupor came over his feelings, his limbs re¬ laxed their energy, and he sunk helplessly upon the deck. The front part of the ship, on which Ned lay, had become jammed among the rocks, and was, of course, immoveable. It was repeatedly washed by huge waves, but being protected by the rocks, did not go to pieces. Before morning, the hinder portion was broken off and swept away. Most of those who had remained on board went with it. The mate was among them. Three or four saved themselves by being tied to spars; the rest perished. And where, during this time, was the man whose intemperate indulgence of his appetite had thus trifled so fearfully with life ?—he who had engaged to carry his vessel safely through the wildest storm of the Indian seas. He had been struck by the main¬ mast in its fall, and knocked senseless into the sea. NED SUMMERS. 355 Two days afterwards, Ned and five companions were relieved by a vessel, bound for England from Calcutta. He never resumed his occupation as cabin- boy afterwards. When the temperance movement be¬ gan he engaged in it with his whole soul, and with an enthusiasm which seemed almost like madness; he laboured among those whose labours were among the waters. One evening, at a temperance meeting, he heard an aged man tell of a shipwreck in which he had been a sufferer. Two of his children, the old sailor said, had found watery graves, and in both in¬ stances because the captain had been intoxicated, When, in continuing, he told that one of them had been a daughter, the pride of the family, Ned sprang to his feet. \ “ Was her name Mary, sir?” he exclaimed. “ That was her name,” said the old man. “ Mary Harper ?” “Yes; my name is Harper.” “ And do you remember the cabin-boy, whom you told to do his duty that night?” The old man trembled. There was excitement among the spectators too intense and breathless for utterance. “I am that cabin-boy,” added Ned. “ And, sir, I did do my duty. I stood by Mary till stunned by the wave which bore her away. I would have plunged after her, but there was no strength left me. Oh ! it is dreadful! dreadful!” and he seemed again amid the scene of that night’s storm. “ I see no pleasure now,” he continued, turning to those around him, 24 356 NED SUMMERS. “ my heart is cold and blighted, but I would live a little longer, that I might behold this cause in which we are engaged flourish, until none will be found to op¬ pose it. 7 ’ He rushed towards the speaker’s stand, and before he had relaxed the grasp of the old man’s hand, many had come forward and enrolled their names on the temperance pledge. (358) CARO LINK WOOED THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. Bt A me re e. “ Does a woman, named Sandford, live in this vil lage ?” inquired a gentleman in one of the settlements on the Illinois, of a backwoodsman of rather suspi¬ cious looking appearance. ‘‘Caddy Sandford, do you mean?” The man nod¬ ded. “ She lives in that little house on the other side of the fence,” said the backwoodsman pointing with his finger. “You’ll see a drunken rascal when you get there, if you see her husband.” The stranger thanked him and walked on. Scenes rude and disgusting met his eye at every step. In one place two men lay beside the road asleep and drunk; a little further on a hunter was skinning a live fox ; and near an old shed, three or four men were engaged in a fist fight. After a walk of ten minutes, he reached the log-house—a wretched one— and knocked at the door. A sickly looking woman, with soiled and tattered garments, answered the summons. “Is this Mrs. Sandford?” he asked. The woman. ( 359 ) 360 the emigrant's wife. nodded. “ I have something of importance to tell you,” he continued; and as she opened the door still wider, he entered, and seated himself upon a chair. The apartment bore the marks of extreme poverty. Two or three chairs, old and broken, a pine table, some earthen dishes, piled upon a box, and a heavy oak bucket, were the principal household articles. The floor was almost black, and in many places char red. Two children were sitting in a corner playing together, and a third crying for food. “Were you born in this settlement?" said the man, with a low voice and after an embarrassing pause. “ No, sir; I came from the East." “ Is your husband living?" asked the stranger in the same low tone. “ He is living," the woman answered, as she en¬ deavoured to still the cries of her youngest child. “ I knew," said the stranger, “ a family named War¬ ren that lived in Connecticut; one of its members married a man named Sandford, who emigrated to the West, about ten years since. If you are the person, I have something important for you to hear." “ I came from Hartford, Connecticut, at about the time you speak of," the woman answered. “ My father’s name was James Warren, and I am his only daughter." “ I believe, I knew you there," said the stranger, still in a low voice. The woman looked at him, with a scrutinizing eye; and after a pause replied :— “Perhaps I have forgotten you; yet, there is in THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. 361 your voice and features something which appears familiar to me.” “ Caroline!” said the man, rising suddenly, and re¬ moving his hat which he had kept on during the conversation. The woman started and shrieked. It > was her brother. We will not describe the scene that followed. It was long before either the brother or sister recovered from its effects, sufficiently to speak. Caroline at length said— “ I thought you had all forgotten me, and I was willing to die alone in this wild place. Oh brother, it is too much to see one of you at last!” “ We did not forget you, Caroline,” he said. “ There has been many a tear shed over the memory of you at home. We could obtain no tidings of you ; for we all supposed that Sandford had gone to Missouri, as he promised to do. I have been there three times to search for you.” “ And did father forgive me, for marrying against his will?” exclaimed the poor woman, sobbing, as the recollection of former days came over her. “ Do not doubt it, sister. There is not one of us, who would not stretch out his arms to embrace you, if you would return to Connecticut.” “ If I could see mother but once more—” she sob¬ bed—“ it would make me forget the sad hours I have spent here.” “Are these all your children, sister?” he inquired, anxious to divert her attention from the remembrance of her change of fortune. The woman nodded. He 362 THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. raised the youngest one—a little girl—upon his knee, and parted the long curls of its hair. Though its cheeks were pale and thin, and its eyes swollen with weeping, there was a regularity and softness in the features, which reminded him of his sister’s infancy. ‘‘This is the little niece I have never seen,” he said, patting its cheek with his hand, and endeavouring to hide his emotion. The other two children left their play, and stepped timidly towards their uncle. He spake kindly to each, framing his words in such a manner as to relieve his sister from the painful feel¬ ings which his unexpected visit had occasioned. During this time he had not inquired about Sand- ford ; but the afternoon had not passed away before that individual appeared. He was in a beastly state of intoxication. Bursting into the room, he uttered a volley of oaths, and swore vengance on his wife. The youngest child ran to its mother, and the others, hid themselves behind their uncle. The drunken man, without heeding the stranger, advanced directly towards his wife, and seizing her by the arm, had already raised his hand to strike her, when her brother sprang between them. The drunken man, startled by a movement so unexpected, let go his hold, and reeled backward against the wall. After several efforts to regain his balance he succeeded, and again advancing, muttered with an oath-— “ Who are you ?” “ I am one, that wishes you to sit down and be quiet,” Warren answered. “ Do you want to fight?” continued Sandford, with CAROLINE AFTER HER HARRIAGE. (363) THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. 365 that simple expression of countenance peculiar to the intoxicated. “ I want you to sit down,” said the other. “ I’ll not sit down,” shouted Sandford. “ Ain’t this my house ?—I can take care of myself without getting; drunk.” He again reeled forward. “ Let me lead you to that chair,” Warren said, laying his hand on the drunkard’s arm. “ Let go of me!” growled Sandford. “ I ain’t drunk—not I, she’s my wife, I tell you that. I’ll blow up the house,” he continued with a loud oath. “I’ll tear you limb from limb; all the men in Illinois can’t hinder me.” As he spoke, he shook off War¬ ren’s hand, and endeavoured to strike at his wife; but the effort destroyed his equilibrium and he came down heavily upon the floor. After several ineffect¬ ual efforts to rise, he in a short time fell asleep. “ This is dreadful, Caroline !” said the brother after a pause. She looked at him without speaking. “ And you have suffered so long, without letting us know.” he added. “ O, brother, how could I tell you of it?” she ex¬ claimed, weeping. “ It is my own fault—I feel that I deserve it all. I almost wish you had not come to see what you have seen. Yet if you but knew the misery, the days of sorrow and sickness I have en¬ dured, you might pity me. And these my little ones, it is they alone for whom I have wished to live.” “ But you will not remain here to suffer.” “ What else can I do, brother—wherever I go, he will follow me.” 366 THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. “ You must go with me to Connecticut,” replied Warren—“both you and the children.” His sister shook her head. “ I could not endure father’s look,” she said mournfully. “ All is forgotten, Caroline,” said her brother, ten¬ derly. “ It cannot be !” she replied, in the same sad tone. “ He could not forget how I disobeyed him. No, no, brother—let me remain and die here. I have not many days to linger,” she added, looking earnestly upon him. “ That disease, which cannot be cured, has fastened upon me; but oh ! it will be consoling even in death, to know that I may leave these little ones to your care. You can take them with you, brother—they have no remembrance of disobedience and shame, to weigh down the gloomy hours of exist¬ ence. Father, too, will be glad to see them, and per¬ haps, when he hears them laughing round him, will think sometimes of their poor mother.” Warren did not reply. There was a long pause, broken only by the hard breathings of the drunken man, and the sobbings of his wife. The evening gradually wore away, and one after another the chil¬ dren came to their mother, crying for bread. Their uncle took some food from his portmanteau, and spread it before them. They clapped their hands, and danced in childish joy, at sight of the full meal. “Eat, sister,” said Warren, as he seated himself beside her. She raised a morsel to her lips, but again laid it upon the table. He urged her, but in vain. She was THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. 367 sick at heart. There was something touching in that scene, of the brother, hundreds of miles from home, feeding, with the bread of charity, the little ones of her who, in early days, had been the pride and hope of the family. It seemed a silent, but powerful lecture on the consequences of in¬ temperance. For several weeks previous to Warren’s arrival in the village, Sandford had been on one of those ruinous frolics, technically known as batters. After drinking to excess in the tavern, he would lie under sheds or hedges during the greater part of the day, and return in the evening to abuse his wife. Under such treat¬ ment, his constitution, already shattered, was fast sinking; and for some days past, symptoms of the mania began to appear in his conduct. On the night of which we have spoken, as Warren and his sister were conversing with each other, the drunken man suddenly awoke under a violent paroxysm of this horrible disease. Fortunately for the wife and her brother, two or three hunters belonging to the village, who knew Sandford, happened to be passing along, from a night excursion after deer. Hearing the noise, and fearing that he was abusing Mrs. Sand¬ ford or the children, they pushed open the door, and entered. Glad of such opportune assistance, Warren bade them welcome, stating, in a few words, his own position. With much difficulty the drunken man was secured, and the hunters, after taking some food from their hunting-sacks, agreed to remain until , morning. 368 THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. All the remedies applied to arrest the progress of Sandford’s disorder were vain. He lingered in a fearful condition for five days, and died a raving maniac. The last tie which held Mrs. Sandford to her emi¬ grant home was now broken; for, although she had not confessed it, yet her brother perceived that it was partly on account of her husband that she had been so decided in her refusal to return to Connecticut. He, therefore, renewed his solicitations with increased earnestness, and, at length, with success. The sum¬ mer was far advanced ; yet, unwilling to remain until spring, Warren resolved on setting out immediately, even at the risk of incurring the fevers prevalent on the western waters during the fall season. Hence, in 'a few days after Sandford’s death, he was descending the Illinois, with his sister and her three children, bound for their distant home. The voyage was a dis¬ astrous one. Warren, himself, was attacked by fever and ague; and, on arriving at Pittsburgh, the oldest child suddenly became ill and died. Yet the mother, frail and sickly as she was, bore up, with that firmness which woman frequently displays in trials of the most agonizing nature. It was the middle of November before the little party arrived at Hartford. With what feelings did the child of poverty—the widow, whose husband lay in a drunkard’s grave— stand before that mansion, in whose halls, when a girl, her days had been spent in affluence. Her bro¬ ther was beside her. He rang the bell, and a servant 369 THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. admitted them. Old Mr. Warren heard his son’s voice, and rushed into the hall. There was a clasp¬ ing of the hands in joyful surprise, a wild shriek, and the daughter fell into her father’s arms. The chil dren screamed in terror, and clung to their uncle ; while tears, which manhood could not restrain, started to his eyes. “ Thank God ! thank God !” said the old man, at last, “ I have seen my daughter once more.” “ Can you, forgive me, father ?” she murmured. He pressed her to his bosom without speaking; but in his countenance, beaming with joy, she read oblivion of the past. “And where is mother?” inquired .the younger Warren. The old man was silent. Caroline gazed long in his face. “ I see it!” she exclaimed, as a wild burst of grief came to her relief. “ Oh, my poor mother! I thought to get her pardon, and to die in peace. It is I who have shortened her days, and brought her sorrowing to the grave. But I shall soon follow her—you will not have me long, father, to imbitter your age by re¬ membrances of the past. Oh. it will be sweet to die, feeling that we are reconciled !” “Caroline,” said the old man, “what words are these ?” but the excitement was too much for his de¬ clining strength. He sunk with her exhausted upon a sofa. Restored to the home of her childhood, to her fa¬ ther’s blessing, and her brother’s care, with ease and luxury around her, and the past consigned to appa- 370 THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. rent oblivion, would not the mother regain her smile, and be happy in the society of her friends and her children ? Caroline appeared happy. She strove to relieve the mind of her father from care, and smiled when, with almost childish fondness, he would say that she was once more his own girl. But in secret— when the heart and the countenance did not betray each other—there was the fast flowing tear, the prayer, not for joy, but for that which strong men dread to contemplate, and the cough which announced that the prayer would be answered. We may not wonder, then, that the effort to appear happy was too much for her. She wasted away day by day, until the eyes of partial friends could no longer be blind to the ra¬ vages of disease. Then every remedy which medical skill could devise was applied ; amusements procured, and varied, and change of climate proposed. They were vain. Spring came, and while the vegetable world was springing into renewed life, while the fields were clothing themselves in a grassy carpet, and beds of flowers; while youth sought the society of kindred youth, without whose smile existence was sad and languid—she who had once smiled brightest amid these scenes, lay in her chamber, asleep. The soft wind came through the open window’, and curled, at times, the locks of her hair. It did not disturb her. An old man, whose few hairs glittered over his withered brow, like moonbeams around a ruined pile, held her hand, and raising his own towards hea¬ ven, exclaimed, “ Oh, God ! this is not my daughter!” She neither felt his touch, nor heard his voice. 371 THE EMIGRANT’S WIFE. Two children stood beside her couch, but she seemed unmoved, even though they called ceaselessly for their mother. She slumbered too heavily to be disturbed by aught like these. Hers was the sleep of death. She was buried in the little churchyard, and over her was placed a simple stone— Sacred to the Memory of the Emigrant’s Wife. 25 THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. Bt Amerei* One hot afternoon two gentlemen were riding to¬ gether near the village of R-in one of the Mid¬ dle States. When they reached a cross-road which led directly through the village, the one who held the reins, stopped the horse, and turning to the other said:— “ Ought we not to do something in this village ?” “We cannot,” said the other. “We must reach Lancaster before the close of the week, and you know how much we have to do after that. Don’t let us pause, unless it be impossible to avoid it.” “ We can easily make up one day’s loss,” said the first speaker. “ Besides there is misery to relieve as well in a village as in a city. Yonder I see a tavern sign swinging; our opponents, you see, have already obtained a foothold, and ought we not to make an effort to dispossess them?” “ But how shall we make up the loss of time ?” “ Stay here to tiight and to morrow; hold our meet¬ ing to morrow night; and then travel until morning, ( 372 ) THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 373 We shall thus gain at least half a day. As to the re¬ mainder, leave it to me.” “ Well, drive up the road.” The two men were soon in the village. On the following day it was announced that a Temperance meeting would be held that evening, in an old building, which had last been used as a school- house. The church could not be obtained. When the cause of Temperance first began to ex¬ cite public attention, it is well known that such an announcement would throw the most retired country village into an uproar. Such was the case at R-. Some, who did not clearly understand what Tempe¬ rance was, clamoured against the attempt to take away their liberty. Others, with appetites whet¬ ted by opposition, declared that they would rather resign both meat and clothing, than resign their morn¬ ing potations of gin and hard cider. A few, zealous in the cause of education, denounced the authorities which had granted the school-house to the Tempe¬ rance men, and declared it an insult to an enlight¬ ened population. Some were for excluding the strangers from the village ; and despairing to accom¬ plish the act by force of argument, they talked vehe¬ mently of a right inherited from their ancestors of keeping the moral atmosphere of R-pure, if not by fair means by foul. Such were a few of the speculations and opinions that disturbed this little village, during the day which preceded the holding of the Temperance meeting. In spite of them the school-house was crowded; for 374 THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. curiosity, that busy principle, is pre-eminently busy among the inhabitants of a village. Some had come merely to see the lecturers; some to excite distur¬ bance ; a few, well versed in village lore, to advocate the cause of cider drinking; and some, with a de¬ termination to disgorge their loaded pockets of stones, corn-cobs, chicken-bones and other missiles—all of course designed for the heads of the lecturers. For half an hour, while the audience collected, a din, like that of any Babel, of all languages and meanings, arose from the motley audience, baffling the efforts of the self-constituted committee of order, and threatening to demolish the crazy building, whose joists and walls were already cracking. Many of the peacefully dis¬ posed retired; leaving a fair field of operations to those who had taken the management of the prelude into their own hands. Such were the discouraging prospects, under which the first speaker mounted the decayed platform where the teacher’s desk formerly stood. He was a tall, stout man, with the brow and eye of an orator, and an attitude to awe a mob. Placing his hands behind him, he looked calmly upon his audience, until as if by magic, a deep silence pervaded every part of the room. Then, with a voice which had been modified to winning softness by experience in many a similar scene, he began— “ My friends, permit me to relate to you a true story.” They listened. He told of one who had been the hope of the household, in which she lived. He described her, young, innocent, happy, beloved THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 375 by her friends, sought eagerly by men of high stand¬ ing in society—of her marriage with one who seemed worthy of her, and the merry pledges which accom¬ panied the weddmg scene—of a few years of happi¬ ness—and then of the crushing reaction which made her a drunkard’s wife, and hurried her heart-broken to the grave Then while his audience hung breath¬ less upon his words, he poured forth in rapid and brilliant arguments his reasons against the use of alcoholic drinks. His hearers maintained profound silence and seemed pondering over the words which fell from his lips. Before he ceased a visible change was observed in the aspect of all in the room. The other speaker arose. He had not the com¬ manding figure 6f his friend, but his voice was deep and powerful, and went directly to the hea.t. The first speaker had pointed to the evil of intemperance— he showed the remedy. He spoke of the manly struggle with temptation, of the fallen reclaimed, of the joy over a prodigal, who, having been lost, was found. He also related anecdotes; but they were soothing and encouraging. Tears of ecstatic joy flowed from many eyes while he spoke. Lectures like these had never been heard in R-. Men, half ruined by intoxication, shuddered as they saw their condition, for the first time, in its true light. Mothers, who had given small drams of cider or rum to their children, silently vowed to abandon, altoge¬ ther, so dangerous a practice ; young men examined their habits, wives wept in bitter grief as they recog¬ nized, in the pictures delineated, traces of their own 376 THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. sad experience. Those who had come to excite dis turbance were orderly; those who had boasted of their skill in advocating cider drinking, sat speech less. People who had grown gray amid the ravages of intemperance, wondered why, for the first time, they began to consider it a great evil. “ And now,’ 7 exclaimed the second speaker, when he had finished his lecture, “ who wfill sign the tee¬ total pledge ?” “ 1 will, 7 ’ said a poor old woman, who sat on a broken box close to the platform. She arose, and with much difficulty, hobbled towards the lecturer. “ I was once as young, and rich, and happy as the poor girl that the other gentleman told about. But rum made me poor. Thank heaven,'I can still write my name to the temperance pledge !” “ And I will sign it, 77 said a miserable-looking man, in front of the orators. “ Sir, 77 he said to the second speaker, “ I came here to throw stones at you ! Here they are ! 77 —he drew a handful of stones from his pocket—“ I did not believe you would tell the truth. Now, I think differently. Every word you say is true. I was a fool that I did not see it before. My father taught me to drink, for he gave me rum, sweetened with sugar, when I was a little boy. I could curse him, but I will not He is already cursed. Once I was a merchant. Look at me now! But I’ll sign the pledge, and keep it, too. 77 “ So will I,” exclaimed a bloated old man, of some twelve stone in weight, as he rose suddenly from among the audience. A great sensation was visible. I THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 377 # “ There’s Squire Dawson ! Squire Dawson’s going to sign!” was whispered in every part of the room. The squire hobbled up the aisle with a gait which evinced irresistible symptoms of gout; and, seizing the pen, wrote his name with a trembling hand. Then straightening himself as well as he could, he faced the lecturers, and exclaimed— “ Every word you have said is true. Rum has ruined me, and it ruined my poor boy, Charles, who lies in yonder churchyard. I have done ten times more mischief by drinking rum, than I have corrected by enforcing the law.” By this time another man had pressed up towards the platform. He was not more than twenty-eight years old ; but indulgence in liquor and other abuses had whitened his hair, and bent his shoulders as though by the weight of years. His face evinced much intelligence, and there was in his features a mysterious sadness, which at once arrested the be- . holder’s attention. Soon as the squire had finished speaking, this young man stooped down and enrolled his name on the pledge. “ Mary will be glad of it, in heaven!” exclaimed the squire, grasping his friend’s hand. “ I believe she will,” said the other, solemnly. “ Gentlemen,” said the squire to the lecturers, in a voice which long habit had rendered authoritative, “ this young man is my nephew. He became an orphan at the age of thirteen, since which time he has lived under my roof. He studied law in Philadelphia, and, for a while, he seemed on the high road to success. 378 THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. Rum ruined every thing; he and I were alike in that respect. He loved a sweet creature whom we called Mary—the daughter of a physician who once lived in this village. Rum killed him, too, poor fel¬ low. Mary was proud to be the chosen one of my nephew. It was a sad parting when he went to study at Philadelphia—she could scarcely give him up. Every day, as we found out afterwards, she wrote something about him in a small journal, and counted the time which he had to stay. At last, it slowly moved round. He returned ; but he was altered—I need not tell you how. Poor Mary ! it broke her heart! We buried her in the churchyard, beside my boy, Charles. There have been sad times since then, for both of us.” The two men sat down, amid silence interrupted only by sobs. Others came forward to sign the pledge; so that it was nearly eleven o’clock before the meeting adjourned. Forty-two names had been enrolled in the temperance cause ! The two men gazed upon each other in wonder and thankfulness. What a work had been done in the short space of one evening ! “ Do you still regret,” said one of them to his com¬ panion, “ that we have been detained for a day ?” “ My friend,” was the reply, “ would that we might lose every day in this manner.” Nor did the good effects of that one effort stop after those with whom it had originated left the vil¬ lage. On the following day, several men were gather¬ ing in their harvest in the fields near the village ( 379 ) THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 381 They had been at the meeting of the previous even¬ ing, and the names of two ot three of them were en¬ rolled upon the pledge. When the hour for dinner arrived, they collected under a large tree, and while eating, began to converse upon the subject of the lectures. “ Do you think old Squire Dawson will keep the pledge ?” asked one. “ I have no doubt of it, John. I never saw the old man so resolute in any undertaking before. But did you see Briggs, the tavern-keeper?” “ No. Was he there ?” “ Yes. Every body thinks he came to make dis¬ turbance. He missed it, though. While the first man was lecturing, he appeared very uneasy, shuffling about from side to side, as if he thought all of us were watching him; but soon as he saw the squire get up, he pushed for the door in double quick time. He knows the squire could tell a tale about him, if he chose.” “ I heard that his tavern has not been opened this morning,” said a man, named Greene. “ Pity that it ever should,” answered another. “ But who would think that so much could be said in favour of temperance ?” “ Or so much done ?” “ And why cannot more be done ?” exclaimed the one they had called John. “ Why may we not form a small temperance society, and have rules and regu¬ lar meetings, like other societies, and invite persons i f I 382 THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE. to lecture for us, and endeavour to prevent some in this village from becoming drunkards ?” “ That is an excellent thought,” replied Greene. “Suppose we give notice to our friends that a meeting to form the society will be held to-morrow night, at the school-house ?” “Agreed !” they all exclaimed. One of them, who had not signed the pledge on the previous evening, drew something from his basket. “ I will begin,” said he, “ by throwing this rum bottle, which has spoiled many a fine lunch, into the creek there.” He did so, with the approbation of his companions. The meeting was held on the following evening. A large society was formed under the most promising circumstances, and its members went forth already armed with an influence powerful for good. Such w'ere the immediate effects of the first temperance lecture in the village of R-. “ A word spoken in season, how good it is!” THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. By Henry Travers. “ I’m as dry as a fish, Harry,” said an acquaintance who was visiting a young man named Marshall. “ Don’t you keep any thing good to drink here?” “Yes; we’ve a pump full of the purest water,” was r3plied. ( 383 ) 384 THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. “ Pah! water!” and the acquaintance manifested disgust. “ There is not a sweeter nor better beverage in the world, friend Lloyd, ‘Water for me, bright water for me.”* And he sung the line merrily. “ And have you become a cold water man ?” said Lloyd, with a look of surprise. f‘Yes,” replied Marshall, “Pm for pure, cold w T ater.” “Well, I’m sorry for you,” said Lloyd. “Right down sorry for you ! That’s all I can say. Never catch me cutting all the nice little comforts of life— few enough there are at best. I go in for enjoying myself” “ So do I; and I never find so much enjoyment as when my mind is clear.” “ A good glass of whisky toddy makes the mind as clear as a bell,” said Lloyd. “ It never was so in my case.” “ It’s always so in mine. To night I’m as dull as a deacon.” “ I hav’n't found you so.” “ I feel so, then.” “ Will you have a glass of water?,” “ No.” Lloyd shook his head emphatically. “ A cup of coffee, then ?” “ No—no.” And the acquaintance made a motion to rise from THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 385 the table at which he had been playing a game of chess with Marshall. “ Don’t go yet. Let’s have another game,” said the latter. “ Thank yon, I’ve staid longer now than I intended; I’ll call in again some other evening.” o o “ I wish you’d stay.” urged Marshall. But Lloyd could find enjoyment here no longer. He wanted something to bring up his spirits. So he left the pleasant parlour and companionship of his friend, to enjoy himself in a bar-room where the air was loaded to oppression with segar smoke and the sickly fumes of liquor. Some men have strange ways of enjoying themselves. Marshall had a pleasant horfte in which was a pleasant wife and a sweet child. He had once tried to find pleasure in idle company, tavern lounging, and brandy drinking; but the experience of a few years satisfied him that he had somehow or other gotten into the wrong road; and so he turned off into a better way. He quit tippling, applied himself more industriously to business and married a wife. “Never catch me at this work,” said his friend Lloyd, when the last mentioned event took place. “ I go in for enjoying myself.” “So do I,” returned Marshall. “I never was so happy in my life as I am now.” “ Wait a while,” retorted Lloyd, smiling. “ Wait a while, this is only the beginning.” “ You’d better follow my example,” laughingly an¬ swered Marshall. 38G THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. “ Never. I go in for enjoying myself.” And so the two men went on, each in his own way, and both seeking to enjoy themselves, As for Lloyd, he, somehow or other, did not always feel as happy as he could wish. Tarrying long over the bottle at night, generally produced morning sensations of no very agreeable character; and the disarrangement of business matters, and the marring of his prospects in life, consequent upon wine drinking and “good fel¬ lowship,” caused him often to be afflicted with the blues. “ Oh dear! This is a hard world for a man to get along in!” was a sentiment which often fell from his lips. Daily, for all his efforts to enjoy himself, the lines on the countenance of Lloyd evinced more and more a downward tendency. In conversation a light would go over it; but this soon faded, and he looked as dull and miserable as before. Moreover a perceptible change passed upon his outer man. The neat, tidy, particular Mr. Lloyd, grew careless of his person. Dress became an indifferent matter. He found no longer any enjoyment here. All his plea¬ sure hovered around the cup that inebriates. Some months after the incident mentioned in the beginning, a person said to Marshall, “ Our old friend Lloyd is in trouble, I am told.” “ Ah ! What’s the matter?” “ The sheriff is on him.” “ Indeed ! I’m sorry for that. How did it hap- pen?” _ “ He likes to enjoy himself too well.” THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 387 ** He’s fond of company, I know,” said Marshall. “ And fond of something else. He drinks like a fish.” “If he only drank like a fish , it would be better for him. A fish takes nothing but pure water, and that in reasonable quantities.” “ True enough. He drinks like a beast then.” “ Don’t slander the beast. I never yet saw a dumb animal who would touch brandy.” “ Nor did I. Well, I’ll get it by and by. He drinks like a fool.” “ That’s more like it. Poor fellow! I’m sorry for him. He calls all this enjoyment. But, where the enjoyment lies, it passes my wit to tell. He didn’t look very happy the last time I saw him.” “ Nor is he very happy now. Men seek out many inventions by which to enjoy themselves, and this drinking is one of them. But the whole system of tippling is a miserable failure from beginning to end. I never saw any true enjoyment among dram-drinkers even while the stimulant was in its first exhilaration. Afterwards we all know that, 4 it biteth like a ser¬ pent, and stingeth like an adder.’ ” “You say,” remarked Mr. Marshall, “that the sheriff is on Lloyd ?” “ Yes.” “ Is the matter serious ?” “ I believe so. The debt is a thousand dollars, and he couldn’t squeeze this much from his business with¬ out squeezing the very life out of it. I guess it’s all over with him.” 26 388 THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. “ I’m sorry, indeed. Lloyd has some good traits of character.” “ Yes; but he is fast drowning them out.” “ I must go and see him. Perhaps I can suggest something for his benefit,” said Marshall. “ If you would suggest sobriety and a better at¬ tention to business, some good might come of it Though I fear me, he is too far gone to hope for a favourable change.” “ I will see him at any rate,” returned Marshall. “ Perhaps I can do him some good. Men in trouble are more inclined to hearken to the suggestion of OO friends.” Prompted by his kind feelings, Marshall went immediately to Lloyd’s place of business. He found no one there but a boy. Every thing looked thrift¬ less and in disorder. “Where is Mr. Lloyd?” he inquired. “ Hasn’t been down since dinner,” was replied. “Do you expect him here?” “ No, sir.” “Doesn’t he generally come down in the after noon ?” “ Not often.” “ He boards at the 1 Eagle,’ I believe ?” “ Yes, sir.” “ Do you think he is there now ?” “ I can’t tell, sir.” Marshall stood and reflected for a little while. Then he started off, and bent his steps towards the Eagle Hotel. THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 389 “Is Mr. Lloyd in his room?” he inquired on arriving at the house. “ I believe he is.” “ What is the number ?” “ Room thirty-nine, third floor.” “ Marshall ascended to the third story, and ex¬ amined the numbers until he came to the one he sought. The door stood ajar; without knocking, he pushed it a little open, so that he could see within. At a table, upon which was a bottle and a pitcher, sat Lloyd, trying to forget his troubles and find en¬ joyment in drinking. In his hand was a glass, half full of brandy, which he was holding up and eyeing with a look of stupid, half drunken interest, as if he hoped to see some good angel arise therefrom and rebuke the unhappy spirits, by which he was pos¬ sessed. For a moment or two, Marshall stood and contem¬ plated the picture. “ And this is enjoyment!” said he. “ And this the man who enjoys himself! Heaven keep me from such enjoyment!” Then he pushed the door wide open and entered. “Marshall!” exclaimed Lloyd, setting down his glass quickly, while a slight flush of confusion went over his face. “ How are you ? This is an unex¬ pected visit. Take a chair.” A chair was offered, which Marshall accepted. The two men looked at each other inquiringly, for some moments. 390 THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. “I heard to day,” said Marshall, at length, “that you were in trouble; is it so ?” “ Oh, dear!” sighed Lloyd. “Trouble ! I’ve had nothing else for the last six months. Every thing has gone wrong with me—every thing.” “ Ho w has that happened ?” “ I’m sure I don’t know. Luck is against me, I suppose.” “ Luck ?” “ Yes. Ill-luck has dogged my steps for months ; and now, to cap the climax of trouble, I’ve got into the sheriffs hands. He’ll make a clean sweep.” “ Who has sued you ?” “ Carpenter.” “ What’s his claim?” “A thousand dollars.” “ Can’t you hold him off for a while ?” “ I’ve been holding him off, and promising for a year. Now, he says he wont be put off any longer.” “ Is there any prospect of your paying him ?” “ If business were not so dull, and times so hard, I could settle his claim in twelve months.” “ I don’t find business dull,” said Marshall. “ I do, then. It has been a perfect drag with me for the last six months, and things get worse and worse, instead of better.” “ Perhaps it’s your own fault,” suggested Mar¬ shall. “ How my own fault ?” “ Do you attend to business properly ?” THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 391 “ I do all the business that comes to me. I can’t make business.” “ I don’t know about that. I rather think you are too fond of enjoying yourself.” And Marshall smiled, as he glanced at the bottle and half-filled tumbler. “Oh!” ejaculated Lloyd, indifferently; “a man must have some enjoyment in this life.” “ He may have a great deal if he will only seek it in the right way. You, it strikes me, have been get¬ ting into the wrong way.” “ There’s something wrong, without doubt,” said Lloyd, gloomily. “Undoubtedly there is; and now, suppose you go seriously to work to find where the wrong lies.” “ It’s too late.” “ Why so ?” “ The mischief is all done.” “ Perhaps not.” “I’m on my back, without the power to rise. Carpenter has got his foot on my neck—confound him!” “Perhaps he may be induced to take it off ” “ Not he. He thinks it his last chance to get his money.” Marshall sat silent for some time. Then he said, in a serious voice— “ You will bear the truth from a friend ?” “ Oh, yes. I never was afraid of the truth.” “ I can point out the cause of your present diffi¬ culty, and likewise the remedy.” 392 THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. “ Can, you, indeed ? Then I wish, from my heart, that you would do so.” “ There is the cause !” And Marshall pointed to the bottle of brandy that stood on the table. The eye of Lloyd followed his finger. “ What do you mean ?” said he. “ There is the cause!” repeated Marshall; and this time he laid his hand upon the bottle. For some time Lloyd looked his friend in the face; then his eyes drooped, gradually, and fell to the floor, while a heavy sigh came up from his bosom. “Do you wish to know the remedy?” inquired Marshall. “ Of course I do,” said Lloyd. “ There it is !” And, with the words, he threw the bottle from the window. * “ What do you mean ?” exclaimed Lloyd, spring¬ ing to his feet in surprise. “ I have shown you the cause and the remedy,” replied the friend calmly. “ Act wisely from the knowledge now received, and all may yet be well.” “ It is too late,” said Lloyd, resuming his seat. “ No, it is never too late, while life remains, to re¬ trace the path of error. Give up this poison-bowl, in which you have too long drowned your reason. Let your best thoughts and your best efforts centre in your business, and my word for it, all will come out right in the end.” But Lloyd shook his head. “Believe that what I say is the truth,” urged Marshall. THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 393 “ How can I? Am I not in the clutches of the law, which never relinquishes its grip while breath re¬ mains in the body ?” “ Promise me, on your word of honour as a man,” said Marshall, “that you will change your manners of life, and I will undertake to manage Carpenter.” “ How, change ?” “Give up drinking and idle company, and put yourself down to business.” “ What is life worth, if a man is to have no enjoy¬ ment?” “ Not much, I grant. And pray, how much real enjoyment have you had ?” Lloyd shrugged his shoulders. “ Enough to make life worth going over again ?” “ No,” was the emphatic answer. “ And yet there is a great deal to enjoy in thg world. The only defect in your case is, your error in the adoption of means to the end in view. No man ever found real enjoyment in the bottle. And why ? It is not there! Its effect is unnatural excitement, which is followed by depression, to say nothing of the consequent evil results that must produce their mea¬ sure of unhappiness. This is your history, and the history of every man who indulges in the pleasures of the bottle.” “ Perhaps you are right,” said Lloyd, after a long silence. He sighed heavily as he spoke. “ Try a new way to enjoyment; this has failed.” “ What would you have me do ?” “ Give up, as I have said, drinking and idle com 394 THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. pany, and all will be well with you again. Promise this amendment, and I will see that Carpenter is taken care of.” “ I promise,” said Lloyd, after another long period of silence. “ On your word as a gentleman?” “ Yes.” “ I will rely upon it. Good day. To-morrow morning I will see you at your store.” “Very well.” And the two men parted. Carpenter, by whom an execution had been issued against Lloyd, was busy in his store when Marshall came in, shortly after parting with his friend in trouble. “ I want to say a word to you about Mr. Lloyd,” said the latter, St The smile that lit up the countenance of Carpenter faded. “ Do you mean to sell him out under the execution that now lies against his property ?” “ I do, certainly,” replied Carpenter. “ It will break him up, root and branch.” “I suppose it will; but I can’t help that. If not pulled up by the root now, he will die down to the root in a little while. If I don’t take care to get my own now, I will never get it; for he is going to the dogs about as fast as a man ever went. Drink is ruining him.” “ I am aware of that. But, I believe he will re¬ form.” THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 395 Carpenter shook his head. “ If he should really reform, and attend properly to business, how long would you give him to pay your debt, provided his present amount of property were not diminished, and your security in it were kept good ?” “Five years,” replied Carpenter, emphatically. “ But I have no faith in his giving up the bottle, and attending to business.” “ Will you give him a trial?” “ Certainly. So long as he keeps from drinking, and attends to his business, I will let my execution rest, provided no one else attempts to come in, and get precedence over me.” “ He has just promised me that he will entirely re¬ form his life. “ Has he ?” “ Yes.” “ Then, in heaven’s name, let him have every chance for his life. I will not put a straw in his way. I saw that ruin was inevitable, and merely stepped forward to save my own from the wreck; but, if there is any hope for him, I will not interpose an obstacle.” On the next morning, Mr. Marshall called early at the store of his friend. He found him there, and busy at work in restoring things to order. He looked pale and anxious. “ I’ve seen Carpenter,” said Marshall, in a cheer¬ ful voice. “Have you?” Lloyd did not smile. There was too heavy a pressure on his feelings. 396 THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. “ Yes.” “ Well, what does he say?” “Just what I expected him to say. All he wants is some security for his claim.” “ I have none to offer.” “ Oh, yes you have—at least, all that he desires. Give up your brandy, and attend to business.” “Did he say that?” A flush came to the face of Lloyd. There was something indignant in his tone of voice. “He said what all your friends have been saying for some time past, that drinking and idle company were ruining you. He saw that, going on as you were, your destruction was inevitable, and he merely sought to save himself.” Lloyd felt exceedingly humbled by all this. “I am not a common drunkard,” said he. “ Yet you have been indulging so freely,” replied Marshall, “ that hundreds have observed it, and pre¬ dicted your ruin; and, what is more, the prediction has been well nigh fulfilled.” “ So it seems.” “ But all may be recovered. Abide by your pre¬ sent resolution, and you need not fear for the future.” “Am I to understand, then, that Carpenter will not sell under this execution ?” “ Certainly. The measure was only one of safety to himself. Go on, as you are, and pay him as fast as you can. He says that if the whole claim is re¬ covered in five years, he will be content. All the security he asks is a change in your habits.” THE MAN WHO ENJOYED HIMSELF. 397 “ I will not disappoint him,” said Lloyd, emphati¬ cally. And he did not. “ Five years have passed since the events briefly described took place. Lloyd has remained true to his promise, and is now free from his obligation to Car¬ penter. Moreover, he has taken to himself a wife, and in her society at home, where there is a sw r eet little babe, he finds a far higher pleasure than he ever knew while in search of the smiling companion in drinking-houses and among idle company. As for the brandy bottle, it has never visited his happy home, and, we trust, never will. Do you want to find the man who enjoys himself? There he is; and his name is Hiram Lloyd. TWELVE O’CLOCK. By Henby Tbavebs. “ Oh dear!” muttered Mr. Guzzler, as he stretched and gaped in bed. “I wonder what o’clock it is?” And he tried to rub his eyes open. “ It can’t be late. Oh dear! O-o-o! Ah—Oush!” And he gaped, and stretched, and shook himself. “I wonder if the sun’s up?” Yes; for at that moment, a few rays of light came through his half¬ open lids, and touched the retina as sharply as if pricked with needles. “ Yes, it’s daylight, but I guess the breakfast bell hasn’t rung yet.” And so Mr. Guzzler smuggled himself down un- * 399 TWELVE O’CLOCK. der the bed-clothes that he might take a little morn¬ ing comfort. As he did so, a pain shot through his forehead; and he became aware of a sensation of vacancy and sickness at the stomach, accompanied by ardent thirst. At twelve o’clock, Mr. Guzzler had a business en¬ gagement of considerable importance to himself. In fact, he had applied to a person for the loan of some money, and this person had promised to call at his store in order to talk the matter over with him at twelve o’clock. On the night before, Guzzler, as was his custom, indulged himself freely in drinking; and, in order to prolong this sensual pleasure, sat up until all his senses were drowned by inebriety. Late drinking usually made late rising, in the case of Mr. Guzzler. He was hardly ever out of bed before nine o’clock; and not unfrequently lay until the clock struck ten; when he would creep forth, feeling about as uncom¬ fortable as a man need wish to feel. “ O-ow-ah!” gasped Guzzler again. On the pre¬ sent occasion, he got a little wider awake, and once more he threw his arms beyond the bed-clothes, and stretched them to their widest extent. Rat-tat-tat! Some one knocked at the door. “Well, what’s wanted?” cried Guzzler, a little impatiently. “It’s twelve o’clock,” said a servant, pushing in his head. “Twelve o’clock! Impossible !” returned Guzzler as he rose /up. 400 TWELVE O’CLOCK. “ It’s just struck, sir.” “ Not twelve ?” “ Yes, sir. It’s just struck twelve.” “ Why didn’t you call me sooner, then, you rascal V’ “I did call you, sir. I called you at nine o’clock.” “ You must have called in a whisper, then.” “ No, sir. I called loud, and you answered me.” “Twelve o’clock! Too bad! too bad!” muttered Guzzler as he turned out and began to dress himself. His quick movement and excitement of mind sent the blood rushing to his head, where the pulses beat along his temples as heavily and painfully as if they were the strokes of a hammer. “ Twelve o’clock! To think that I should have overslept myself this way ! Too bad ! too bad !” Hurriedly throwing on his clothes, and half per¬ forming his ablutions, Guzzler was soon ready to leave his room. There was no time to wait for an extra breakfast. Off for his store he went, hoping that the individual with whom he had made the en¬ gagement might still be there. He paused on the way but once, and that was to get a .glass of brandy and water. “Has Mr. R- been here?” he asked of his young man, on entering the store. “ Yes, sir,” was replied. “Did he wait any time?” “Yes, sir; he waited for half an hour.” “ Did he say he w r ould call again ?” “ No, sir.” “ How long has he been gone ?” TWELVE O’CLOCK. 40. “ Only a few minutes.” “Did he say any thing?” “ He said when he first came in, that he had some money for you.” “ Ah! did he make any remark when he went away ?” “ He told me to tell you that he believed he couldn’t make the arrangement he was talking with you about.’k “ Couldn’t make it?” “That’s what he said.” The countenance of Mr. Guzzler fell. He stood for some moments with his eyes upon the floor. Then a thought went through his mind, and looking up, he said to the clerk, “ Did Mr. R-make any remark about my not meeting him here at the time appointed ?” “ He asked if you had been at the store, this morn- * 11 mg. “ And what did you say ?” “ I told him that you had not.” “Well ?” “ He then wished to know if you often remained away from your business to so late an hour.” “Well?” “ 4 Not often,’ I answered.” “ Not often ! Why didn’t you say no ?” “ Because I couldn’t, sir.” “ You never knew me to be away from my store as late as twelve o’clock before this, in your life.” I 402 TWELVE O’CLOCK. “ Don’t you remember, one day last week ?” “ No, sir! I don’t remember any thing of the kind, nor do you, either!” Mr. Guzzler spoke angrily. “ A pretty way to speak of your employer, whose interest you are bound to protect! Had you no sense nor prudence ? And what else did Mr. R-say ? Had he any more questions to ask?” “ Yes, sir. He asked how early you came, as a usual thing, to the store.” “ What reply did you make to that?” “I told him the truth, sir,” answered the clerk, whose mind was a little fretted. “ Why didn’t you evade the question ?” “ Because I didn’t wish to do so.” “What was your answer?” “ I said you were generally here by ten or eleven o’clock.” “ Confound you !” exclaimed Guzzler, losing, still further, his temper. The clerk became now quite as angry as his em¬ ployer. Hurriedly taking up his hat, he left the store, and did not again return. Alone, and without having taken a morsel of food since the night before, Guzzler was now in no very pleasant condition in either mind or body. Moreover, he had two notes to pay in bank, and no money on hand. About half on hour after his clerk went away, a lad brought him a note, the contents of which we give. TWELVE O CLOCK. 403 “Mr. Guzzler,—Dear Sir I find that it won’t be convenient for me to lend you the money we talked about. In fact, to tell the plain truth, I hardly think it prudent to risk any thing with a man who neglects his business. No one who lies in bed until eleven or twelve ill the morning, need expect to get along. Pardon this freedom; but he is the best friend, generally, who speaks the plainest. “ Yours, &c., R-.” . When bank hours closed, Guzzler’s two notes re¬ mained unpaid. Not long afterwards, he was sold out by the sheriff, and is now in a poor and miserable condition. So much for late drinking and late rising. The man who sits over the brandy bottle until twelve o’clock at night, and then sleeps until twelve the next day, in order to get over the effects of his debauch, mustn’t expect business confidence and suc¬ cess in trade. The two never go' together. 27 PAYING FOR SPORT. By Henry Traver& L-, the distinguished temperance advocate, tells the following story—himself the hero. I was a quiet, steady-going, unexcitable kind of a personage, and not over fond of adventure, while sober; but a glass or two of liquor generally took away all my native discretion and self-respect, and made me ripe for any kind of a frolic. The conse¬ quence was, that every now and then I got into some scrape or other, the result of which alw r ays made me conscious that I had been playing a losing game. On one occasion, three or four young fellows, about as thoughtless as myself, agreed, while in liquor, that we would disguise ourselves, and take a trip up the river as far as Pittsburg, and there have a first rate blow out. One, who had been tarrying but a short time at Jericho, half covered his baby face with enor¬ mous whiskers; another mounted green goggles, while I bought a pair of black, fierce-looking moustaches, and glued them to my upper lip. So metamorphosed were we, that I hardly think our mothers would have known us. ( 404 ) PAYING FUR SPORT. 405 In this plight, with plenty of brandy aboard, we embarked in one of the upward-bound boats, bent on having a grand frolic. And so we had; but it cost something to pay the piper, as it generally does in such cases. We soon made it clearly apparent to our fellow passengers that w*e were a “ hard party.” Some took note of our sayings and doings with broad grins; some with frowns; and some with an indifference that marked their contempt for us as a parcel of shallow- pated, drunken fools. Rum made us feel of consequence; so we showed ourselves off to still better advantage. We swaggered about, talked of indifferent matters in loud voices, swore roundly, and were as ill-mannerly, rude, and offensive to the other passengers, as it was possible to be without getting up a quarrel.. Every now and then we repaired to the saloon on the forward deck, and took in a new stock of excitement in the way of toddies, punches, slings, cobblers, and so on. The captain, a bluff, hard-featured, intractable looking fellow, had, I did not fail to see, his eyes upon us; and, sometimes, when we showed off some extra flourishes, I could see a quick contraction about his heavy brows. But brandy was in the ascendant, and I did not feel afraid. At dinner time, I took my place at the table, and seizing my plate, thrust it towards one of the waiters, theatrically, at the same time calling out— “ Here ! you fellow ! Bring me some roast beef, rare!” 406 PAYING FOR SPORT. But the “ fellow” chose to wait upon a lady first. “ Waiter !” I cried, holding my plate to another of the table-attendants. But he found it convenient to supply the wants of some one else before attending to me. “ I say ! Look here !” But still I was unheeded. The waiters were busy in helping others. “ Waiter 1” I at length shouted, so loudly, and in so fierce a tone, that the eyes of all at the table were instantly upon me. This brought one of the attendants, at whom I glanced menacingly, to my side. “ Boast beef—rare !” said I. “Yes, sir.” And the waiter vanished with my plate. For a few moments I sat patiently; but the roast beef not appearing, my blood began to move a little faster in my veins. Nearly a minute elapsed, and yet I had obtained, thus far, nothing to eat. I turned from side to side for the waiter to whom I had given my commission, my anger rising higher and higher every moment. Many were looking at me, enjoying my impatience, and I knew it. At length, I saw the fellow who had taken my plate, very coolly attending to some one else. For a moment or two I sat and looked at him, hoping to catch his eye; but, as I be¬ lieved, he purposely avoided looking at me. Mad¬ dened beyond control, I sprang from the table, and, seizing a chair, knocked him senseless upon the floor. PAYING FOR SPORT. 407 In an instant I was seized and roughly whirled from the cabin. “ Throw him overboard !” “ Lynch him !” “ Knock his brains out!” And sundry other cries of a like nature reached my ears from the crowd of excited beings that gathered around me. I began to feel a little sober, and to be troubled with the intrusion of some not very agreeable thoughts. 4 “ I’ll take care of him, gentlemen,” called out the captain, at this crisis, and saved me, I believe, from being thrown unceremoniously into the river. Seizing my arm, he forced me down upon the lower deck, and calling for a rope, fastened me securely to a post, where he left me in care of one of the hands. Here I remained for several hours, unvisited by either of my companions, who were told, as I afterwards learned, that if they attempted to go near me, they would be dealt with after a fashion not at all pleasant to think about. You may be sure that I was sober enough by sun¬ down. My friends—brandy, gin, and whisky—who had inspired me with such a fine flow of spirits, and such a recklessness of consequences, withdrew the light of their countenances, and left me sad, spiritless, and repentant of my folly. What penalty I was about to suffer, I could not tell. Off-hand justice is never very partial to the culprit—of this I was well aware, and with good reason dreaded the unknown punish 408 PAYING FOR SPORT. ment in store for me. We had passed Steubenville a few miles, when, soon after the sun dipped below the horizon, the boat came near the shore, on the opposite side of the river, and I was unceremoniously landed. A faint cheer went up from the*deck of the steam¬ boat, as she swung off into the channel and resumed her course. You may be sure that I was as sober as a judge at this stage of the adventure ; and not only sober, but as heartily ashamed of my folly as a man could well be. The place selected for my landing was miles away from any house, at least on that side of the river. High hills, densely covered with wood, arose almost from the water’s edge. The thought of passing the night there alone made me shudder. Seating myself on a fallen tree, I turned my eyes first up and then down the river, in the hope of see¬ ing a boat come in sight. Thus I remained until the darkness closed in ; and still there was no si • • ... tr, ’ ' it “Wouldn’t it have flown open when l knocked?— .* ■(;, ' - wouldn’t it, if it wasn’t locked ?” The doctor had just finished this question when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. “Hands off!” he shouted. “ Not at present,” was the reply. “ I want you with me fo-nmht.” “ I- I was trying to get in my room,- exclaimed Lightfoot You must “Oh, sir!” exclaimed the poor doctor, much so¬ bered, “it’s all over—couldn’t get in, that’s all; but it’s all over.” "T . r >\. • ■ / “You must go with me, though, and apeount for the night’s disturbance.” - ^ / “It ain’t necessary—indeed it ain’t sir. I \Vas wet, watchman, and cross ; but it’s over—over.” The watchman shook his head. “ You must come along.” “ Oh, no ! no ! no !” screamed Mrs. Lightfoot, LOCKED OUT. 421 v. t* '• i wringing her hands. “ Don’t take my poor husband ! V He’s the kindest of men. Please, for my sake, you / won’t take him. It’s all my fault that I wasn’t up— indeed it ks!” The doctor’s fortitude now gave way. “ Oh, don’t take me!—not to-night! It’s only the first offence! I’ll do better in future—indeed I will! It’s Dick Goblet’s fault. I didn’t want to go. Please let go my arm” ! At length the matter was compromised; and the doctor, with his wife, was allowed to retire. “ This is my last frolic,” was heard by the merry crowd, as the door closed upon them. * • 1 Tr v THE MAN WHO MADE A BEAST OF HIMSELF. By Henry Travers. “If your husband will make a beast of himself,” said old Mrs. Gnipen, and her harsh features showed harsher lines than before—“if your husband will make a beast of himself, that’s your misfortune. I’ve nothing to do with it. So you needn’t come whining to me.” ( 422 ) THE MAN WHO MADE A BEAST, ETC. 423 “If Mr. Gnipen wouldn’t sell him liquor, ma’am,” sobbed the poor woman, who had received the repul¬ sive answer of the landlord’s wife—“if you and Mr. Gnipen wouldn’t sell him liquor, but would just say to him, in a kind way-” “ Not sell liquor, indeed!” and the old lady drew herself up in supreme astonishment at such a propo¬ sition. “ And pray, Mrs. Wimbleton, for what pur¬ pose do you think we keep tavern ? If your husband will make a beast of himself-” “ Now don’t say that again, Mrs. Gnipen,” said poor Mrs. Wimbleton, in a distressed voice. “ My hus¬ band isn’t a beast. Not a kinder man is there alive, if he’d only let drink alone.” “ Why don’t he let it alone, then? or why can’t he use it in moderation, as a decent man should ? Here he comes, every two or three days, and drinks and drinks until he makes a fool of himself, and disgraces our house, which has always been a decent, orderly house.” “ Don’t sell him liquor, then, Mrs. Gnipen. He can’t drink without going beyond himself. He’s weak in this matter.” “ No, Mrs. Wimbleton, we never do that. If we refuse to sell to one man, because his wife comes sni¬ velling about, we’ll have our house surrounded by wo¬ men in little or no time. Keep your husband at home; that’s all the consolation I have to give you. Keep him at home, Mrs. Wimbleton.” “ If your husband, Mrs. Gnipen-” 424 THE MAN WHO MADE “ What have you got to say about my husband 7 ” fiercely inquired the old woman. “ If your husband w 7 ere to come home in liquor, you’d maybe have a little more feeling-” “ My husband come home in liquor! Mr. Gnipen get drunk!” The tavern-keeper’s wife boiled over with anger, and she raised her clenched hand, and shook it fiercely at the poor, shrinking creature, who stood before her. “ He’s as likely to get drunk as any one,” retorted Mrs. Wimbleton, who felt very much like the tram¬ pled woman—disposed to show that all life was not entirely crushed out of her. “ You’d better not say that again, Mrs. Wimbleton! You’d better not tempt me too far! No one shall speak ill of my husband!” “ He’s bloated up now as big as one of his brandy casks!” retorted Mrs. Wimbleton, gaining courage; u and if he isn’t brought home on a wheelbarrow, one of these days, as drunk as a beast, I’m no prophet. And so good morning to you, Mrs. Gnipen. When that happens, I’ll call and give you my compliments. Maybe, then you’ll have a little more feeling for others. Maybe, then you won’t be so quick to tell other women about their husbands’ making beasts^of themselves.” And saying this, Mrs. Wimbleton retired. The heat of her anger had dried up her tears. Her form no longer drooped in attitude. Her step was quick and firm. As she walked on towards her home, she met Mr. Wimbleton on his way to Gnipen’s tavern. A BEAST OF HIMSELF. 425 “ John,” said she, in a quick voice, and she laid her hand firmly on his arm as she spoke, “ where are you going?” “Over to Gnipen’s,” replied Wimbleton, evincing some surprise at the manner of his wife, so changed from its usual patient submissive character. “To Gnipen’s! And do you know what Mrs. Gnipen says of you ?” “ What does she say ?” “ Why, that you make a beast of yourself!” “How do you know?” “ She told me so to my teeth, so she did !” “And what did you say, Kate?” Wimbleton felt some risings of indignation. “ I told her that her husband was little more than a brandy cask, and that I’d live to see him brought home on a wheelbarrow.” “You were sharp, Kate.” Wimbleton laughed. “How did the old crone relish that part of the joke?” “Not much. She fairly boiled over with rage.” “ Brought home on a wheelbarrow ! Ha ! ha !” Wimbleton seemed greatly amused at the idea. “ What put that into your head ?” “ I had to sav something to bring the old wretch to her feeling; and I think I succeeded. To talk to me of your making a beast of yourself! I couldn’t stand it.” “ Old Gnipen on a wheelbarrow ! Ha! ha !” Wim¬ bleton couldn’t get over that. “ Come home. John,” said Mrs. Wimbleton, who still had tight hold of her husband’s arm, and now / 426 THE MAN WHO MADE gently drew him the way she wished him to go. “ Don’t visit places where they talk of you being a beast.” Wimbleton yielded to his wife’s persuasion; and, as he walked along by her side, laughed outright every now and then, saying, as he did so— “ Gnipen on a wheelbarrow ! That’s too good !” “Now don’t go to that tavern any more, John. Don’t! you will kill me!” said Mrs. Wimbleton, on their arrival at home. “ Don’t let people say you make a beast of yourself. Have more pride, more re¬ spect for yourself, more respect for me and the chil¬ dren.” “ I won’t go there but once more, Kate,” replied Wimbleton. “ Don’t go at all, John.” “ Yes, once. When Gnipen is trundled home on a wheelbarrow, I’m going along to witness his recep¬ tion. Make a beast of myself, do I ?” “ I was only talking at Mrs. Gnipen. I don’t sup¬ pose it will happen,” said Mrs. Wimbleton. “ It will happen then, Kate; and that too, before night, or my name is not John Wimbleton. The Sporting Club dines at the White Swag^To-day, and Gnipen is always present on these occasions. Last time, and the time before that, I saw him staggering home a little before dark, so tipsy that it would have puzzled him to say whether he were going up hill or down. This evening he will, no doubt, be in the same happy state, and prepared to enjoy the ride you spoke of, amazingly.” A BEAST OF HIMSELF. 427 And laughing to himself, Wimbleton went off to the shop where he worked. He had not quite lost all self-respect, nor w&s he entirely indifferent to the feelings of his wife. The fact that Gnipen’s better half should have insulted Kate so grossly, galled him much more than was apparent to her; and when she spoke of having retorted after the fashion related, he instantly conceived the idea of executing what she had prophesied, at the same time, that he took a strong internal resolution to abandon a habit that was fast dragging him down towards disgrace and ruin. “ Tom,” said Wimbleton, to a half-witted person who turned a wheel in the shop where he worked— “Tom, do you think you could wheel old Gnipen for the distance of a square or two?” “ Oh yes, if he’d sit still,” replied Tom, grinning at the novel suggestion. “Very well, Tom, I’ll give you two shillings for the job.” “ And a treat into the bargain ?” inquired Tom. “ No !” Wimbleton looked grave as he shook his head. “ No, Tom ! This treating is a bad business. I’m going to stop it. I’ve sworn off from drinking any more. When a man drinks until they calLhim a beast, I think it’s about time to stop.” Dressed up in his best, and feeling his importance, the landlord went to the dinner of the Sporting Club, where he drank wine and brandy until he was only a little above the condition of some of his companions, who were under the table. In this interesting condition, he started for home, 428 THE MAN WHO MADE carefully setting down his feet at every step, and vainly imagining that he was going along in a math¬ ematical line, when, in fact, he was, to all appearance, engineering for the location of a Virginia worm fence. Suddenly, and without any perceptible warning, landlord Gnipen found his heels tripped up, and his rotund body, corporation and all, transferred 1o some vehicle, the exact nature of which he could not at first make out. But, in a little while, his bewildered senses were clear enough to enable him to compre¬ hend that he was riding on a wheelbarrow, attended by a pretty respectable and pretty noisy escort. To move from his position he found impossible; for, like a great turtle, he had been turned upon his back. To keep from rolling upon the ground, he clung eagerly to the side of his carriage, which was rapidly propelled by Tom, in fulfilment of his con¬ tract with Mr. Wimbleton; while, sober as a judge, and calmly enjoying his pipe, the last named indi¬ vidual walked erect by the side of the tipsy landlord. Mrs. Gnipen was taking her afternoon nap in her large cushioned chair, dreaming a pleasant dream after the subsidence of her indignation, which had been aroused by Mrs. Wimbleton’s slanderous sug¬ gestion about her husband and a wheelbarrow, when she was aroused by the noise of shouting and loud laughter. By the time she was fairly awake, the door was flung open, and in came the astonished land¬ lord to visit his no less astonished wife, in all the dig¬ nity of a one wheeled carriage, accompanied by a host of attendants. A BEAST OF IIIMSELF. 429 “ Three cheers for Gnipen !” cried Wimbleton, as Tom tipped, dexterously, the wheelbarrow, and dropped his load at the feet of the landlady. “ Three cheers for the man who never made a beast of him¬ self!” Three loud and long cheers went up from the crowd which had been attracted by the novel sight of Boniface going home from the club dinner, drunk, on a wheelbarrow. “ Now, right about face and march !” added Wim¬ bleton, moving towards the door as he spoke ; and the crowd, imitating his example, left Mrs. Gnipen to console herself as best she could over an event that was to her humiliating beyond conception. Now Gnipen, though engaged in a calling that re¬ flects honour on no man, but rather disgrace, had the organ of self-esteem largely developed. He considered himself a person of standing and importance in the community, and, if the truth were told, a little better than his neighbours. Terrible, therefore, was his mortification, when, on a return to sobriety, he be¬ came fully aware of the disgraceful liberty that had been taken with him ; and that it was all over town how he had been taken home drunk on a wheel¬ barrow. As for Mrs. Gnipen, she could not hold her head up in the bar-room, and showed herself there no more. Something of what poor wives suffered, whose husbands she had helped to debase, she now experi¬ enced, and no one pitied her suffering. As for Gnipen himself, the cruel jibes and jeers of his free and easy 430 THE MAN WHO MADE A BEAST, ETC. % » drinking customers galled him so terribly, that, after enduring them for a little while, he became fretted beyond endurance, and, selling out his tavern, went off and set up in a neighbouring town. But the story of his wheelbarrow adventure followed him there. This, and the fact of not doing very well in the new stand, finally drove him off into the country, where he is now engaged in the more honourable and useful employment of a farmer. Wimbleton kept his good resolution, much to the joy of his wife. . THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. By AMBREIi In that portion of the Connecticut valley which forms part of Massachusetts, is a town now one of the most flourishing in the district, but no later than ( 431 ) 432 THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. a generation ago, small and unimportant. Fifteen years since, the largest store in the town was kept by one Thomas Argali, a native of the place. As is usual in village stores, he sold every thing—groceries, drygoods, cutlery, medicines, liquors, farming imple¬ ments, fancy goods, confectionaries, and poultry. Ar¬ gali was a jolly fellow, and being known by every body for miles around, his business thrived wonder¬ fully. Of course his store was a favourite resort of the town people, especially after the postoffice for the district had been established there. Old farmers, from a distance of thirty or forty miles, who neither received letters nor expected to receive them, called at the postoffice whenever in town, and after lament¬ ing the neglect of their correspondents, sat down to spend the day. When the labourers of the town were released by the approach of night, they collected at Argali’s to smoke, chat, tell tales, and sing songs; so that his establishment often resembled a tavern or beer-shop, instead of a store for the sale of useful articles. Among the classes of articles that formed Argali’s stock, liquors occupied a conspicuous place. The revenue derived from the sale of them was great, for he supplied not only his own town, but most of the villages for miles around. Always accommodating, he sold small quantities as well as large; and this rendered him a general favourite with those, who, on numerous occasions, found their cash proper to amount to no more than three or five cents. Thus for many years the business of the “ Grocery, THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. 433 Liquor, and Variety Store,” advanced prosperously, and its proprietor accumulated money. It is true, there were many drunkards about the town; nor could it escape the intelligence of the dullest person, that they bought the liquor, which intoxicated them, at Argali’s. But in those days such matters were re¬ garded as matters of course. If a man choose to be a sot or a brute, who had the right to hinder him? Let each one mind his own business, and allow the rest of mankind to get along through life as they choose. If they ran the race without stumbling, well. If half a dozen did stumble, let the hind ones pass them. If a few like the drunkard fell, let no dunce stop to pick him up, because it is plain to ail, that every body has a right to fall. Such was the reason¬ ing of that day; and its cruel sophistry crushed the struggling hope of many a wretch from misery to despair, and sheltered the rum-seller from the wither¬ ing indignation of his fellow-men. The winter of 1833, was one of great severity throughout the district in which the town was situ¬ ated. In January, Argali had occasion to visit a vil¬ lage in Connecticut, at which time he was absent more than a week* He returned late in the evening; and on the following morning no small stir was created among his neighbours by the discovery that his sign was down. While various speculations were advanced to explain this phenomenon, news was circulated that another sign had been hoisted, bearing the words “ Temperance Grocery, and Variety Store.” This threw the town into a ferment, or rather uproar. 434 THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. Trusty agents were despatched from all quarters to ascertain if the rumour was true; and on their re¬ porting in the affirmative, a consultation was held, on the propriety of repairing in a body to the store, and inquiring into the cause. All were alarmed at the idea of a Temperance store; but that Argali seriously designed to stop selling liquor, nobody could believe. In the evening the store w r as filled. All ages and both sexes were represented, each clamouring to know why the store had been changed to a Temperance grocery. After the tumult had somewhat subsided, a man named Warren, advanced before the counter, and asked the storekeeper if he had actually intended to sell no more liquor. “I will neither sell nor buy another drop!” was the answer. A confused din of voices succeeded this announce¬ ment. The passions of many in the crowd were evidently rising. “How do you expect to live?” asked another “ I will live by keeping a Temperance grocery store,” Argali replied. “Ha, ha!” exclaimed a third speaker. “A Tern perance grocery—ha, ha, ha! Won’t sustain you a year.” “Then I’ll lock up the store and go to farming,” was the firm reply. “ What on earth put this notion in your head ?” exclaimed a disconsolate toper. “ He’s a fool—that’s it,” resumed another. “ And THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. 435 I must tell you, Argali, I always thought you were a mean, low-principled little fellow.” “ You didn't think so last winter, when I helped you out of that rent difficulty with old Benson,” an¬ swered the storekeeper. “ Let’s go and get liquor where we needn’t thank Tom Argali for it,” said a rough looking labourer, as he turned towards the door; “and remember,” he added, turning suddenly, and elbowing through the crowd to shake his fist in the storekeeper’s face, “you get no more money from me!” “ No, nor from me either!” echoed another. Two or three passed out; but the crowd remained, seem¬ ingly for the purpose of bringing their refractory storekeeper to a strict account. During the few succeeding moments of confusion, Argali leaned for¬ ward with his hands upon the counter; but when the noise had somewdiat abated, he drew himself into an attitude favourable for speaking, and requested the crowd to listen. Silence ensued, and he began. “ I will tell you, neighbours, why I have altered my sign. You know I have been in Connecticut, and during the week past have journeyed a good deal among the towns and villages of that State. The o c? weather has been as cold there, and the snow as deep as it is here to-day; and folks had hard work to keep themselves warm, even with three coats on. Last Thursday night, I had to walk three miles on business which could not be postponed. It had snowed hard since noon; and at seven o’clock, the time I started, the ground was covered to the depth 29 / 436 THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. of a foot. Bat I plodded on, over the fields, reached the house, and transacted my business. To return was more difficult. It was still snowing, softly but fast; and while wading over the buried footpath, one found it very difficult to keep himself warm. I took a different route from the one I came by, which, being sheltered by a ridge of hills, was not covered so deeply as the others. After travelling about a mile, I perceived a light at a distance, glimmering through the snow. Glad of the prospect of warming my numb limbs, I hurried on till I got near enough to distin¬ guish the building. It appeared to be a hut, rather than a house, and the outward appearance w T as in a more miserable condition than any house that I ever saw in New England. I was now near enough to hear loud cries, which increased to screams, and the stamping of feet upon the floor. At first I was appre¬ hensive that either thieves had broken in, or that the hut was a resort of gamblers; but this opinion was contradicted by the voices of women and children. As the screaming increased, I hurried, as fast as pos¬ sible, over the fence and up the yard, which stood before the house. The noise was at its height when I reached the door: 4 Should I go in V I said to my¬ self. A child screamed murder. I placed my hand on the latch. Suddenly the door was torn open, and a woman, half naked, ran by me. I grasped my crab-tree cane, and rushed in. “ And now, neighbours,” continued the storekeeper, “listen. A man, all in rags, and in a beastly state of drunkenness—the most disgusting spectacle I ever THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. 437 A NIGHT SCENE. beheld—was pursuing 1 a little boy round the room. As the little fellow leaped, screaming about, over broken chairs and stools, the father—for such he was—made terrible blows at him with a pair of tongs. He had struck him on the arm, and disabled it; and, just as I entered, he was aiming a blow at his head. A girl, older than the boy, sat on her knees, crying and wringing her hands. “ My sudden entrance stopped this fearful scene; and while I demanded what was the matter, the cliil- 438 THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. dren ran and couched behind me. For a while the infuriated father seemed preparing for an attack ; but in a few minutes he dropped the tongs, and sunk helpless upon the floor. The wife came in soon after, and sad, indeed, was the spectacle, when she and her children gathered round to thank and bless me. There was no stove in the room, nor any fire, except a little tan in the chimney-place, which rather smoked than burned. The boy had neither coat, vest, nor shoes on, and the other two were clad in garments thin enough for summer. “ After binding up the boy’s arm as well as I could, I prepared to depart But they begged me to remain, crying and exclaiming that they would be killed when the drunken man awoke next day. But I pro¬ mised to return early the following morning, and adopt some measures for removing them to the neigh¬ bouring village. I did so; and through the kindness of some friends, who cheerfully assisted me, the wife and children of the drunkard w r ere removed that day. It drew’ tears from the eyes to see these hungry, half-naked creatures, clapping their hands with joy, at being delivered from the power of him who should have been their protector. Before I left the village, I learned that this woman is the daughter of a mer¬ chant, who died some years ago in Boston, and that, when married, she enjoyed all the luxuries which wealth, beauty, and an apparently happy marriage alliance could furnish. How exquisite must be her feelings, when she reflects on the scenes of former years, I leave you to imagine.” THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. 439 “ And what’s that got to do with taking your sign down ?” growled a loafer, who with his back against O' o the wall and his hands in his pockets, had been lis¬ tening impatiently for the conclusion of the shop¬ keeper’s story. “ It has this much to do with it,” answered Argali. “ I believe the liquor which that man drank, came from my store; for every one here, knows that I sup¬ ply both those villages, and many others still further south. If you would have told me a month ago, that I was pursuing a course which brutalizes men, im¬ poverishes families, and arms the father with insane rage against his children, I would have thought or cared little about it. But I have seen a spectacle of wretchedness such as no words can portray. It has haunted me ever since. I will no more spread the seeds of wickedness. You may do as you please— either patronize me, or patronize another; but rather than have the fearful account to answer for of the misery of my fellow-men, I will abandon my busi¬ ness.” “ And you may abandon it,” exclaimed half a dozen voices. “You are a mean, cowardly, chicken-hearted fel¬ low !” added a butcher, as he struck his fist upon the counter. “ Call me what you please,” said the storekeeper, “you’ll never shake my resolution.” “ But we’ll shake your custom.” “My conscience is clear,” replied Argali. “Rum is an evil, and I am done with it. Tell me,” he ad- 440 THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. ded in a louder voice, “ is there no woman here who has been driven from her house by a drunken hus¬ band ?” There was a pause. “ And has no one here, been carried home beastly drunic—draped from under hedges, hauled out of ditches, pulled through mud and rain, snow and storm, until he had lost all semblance of a human being. Has no one ruined his health by strong drink? Has no one lost his property by strong drink ? Has no one run in debt, through strong drink ? And did drinking rum ever make a man rich, or wise, or amiable, or dignified ? Think over these questions, before you condemn me for taking the step I have taken.” “ Lecture a little longer, Tom,” said a toper. “ I’ll drink when I please, and as much as I please,” exclaimed another. “ It’s a free country. If a man gets drunk, its nobody’s business but his own.” “But it’s my business, not to sell liquor,” replied the storekeeper. “Mr. Argali is right,” said a woman, who had listened attentively to all he had said. “ Many a time poor neighbour Smith ran into my house to hide from her brute of a husband. I wish all liquor was thrown in the Connecticut.” • “And I too,” exclaimed another woman. “ I know what it is to have a drunken son. Let men but gra¬ tify their appetites, and they care not how much suf¬ fering they bring on us women.” The excitement had now increased to a fearful ex THE TEMPERANCE GROCER. 441 % tent; and but for the self possession of Argali, he would have been pulled from behind the counter. The company remained until nine o’clock, when per¬ ceiving that they had effected nothing, they began to disperse—most of them swearing that “all intercourse between themselves and Tom Argali was at an end, and for ever.” Argali kept his resolution. For more than a month, his store was daily beset by farmers and others from adjoining districts, who, after standing in the road to spell the new sign, rushed into the store with loud exclamations of “ what’s the matter?” Indig- nation generally succeeded astonishment; and they, like Argali’s neighbours, declared that their connec tion with the store was at an end. The consequence was, that in a very short time, Argali’s sales were re¬ duced, more than fifty per cent. But he would neither yield nor compromise ; and after two months’ abstinence from the store, the people of the town dis¬ covered that he could get along without them, much better than they had anticipated. Gradually they restored to him their custom; and before the expira¬ tion of that year, the business of the Temperance Grocery was as flourishing and profitable as that of the former store had been. In due time Argali started a Total Abstinence movement, which met with suc¬ cess, beyond his hopes; so that he was soon able to number among his friends, those who had once sworn away all connection with him. GEORGE SANDFORD. Bt Amerel. “ Let us, at all events, maintain a regular corre¬ spondence with each other,” said a young man to his brother, as they stood by a steamboat, on which the speaker was about to step. “ Certainly,” was the reply. But Charles, what is that one subject to which you alluded last night, as of the first importance to myself ?” “ I almost fear to mention it.” “Speak freely,” answered the young man; “I have promised to take no offence.” “Then, brother, to be plain with you, I fear that you are imbibing an appetite for strong drink, which may one day make you miserable.” “Nonsense!” answered his brother. “Do you sup¬ pose the little that I drink could harm any body?” “ Perhaps not; but remember that you drink twice as much now as you did six months ago; and at least four times as much as you did a year since. What assurance have you that your present quantity will not be doubled six months hence ?” “ There may be something in that; but after all, I (442)1 GEORGE SANDFORD. 443 have no fears of ever drinking to excess. Even An¬ nette, who rates me hard enough about every little fault, hasn’t thought of that yet.” “Do you think not?” “ I know she has not.” “ Yet, George, you told me only a week since, that an unaccountable sadness had lately mingled itself with her words and actions, and which it seemed as vain for you to attempt to dissipate as to explain. May there not be some connection between that fact and the subject we have been speaking about ?” “ Well, I will think of it,” the other replied. “ In the mean while, do not be afraid of my turning drunkard ; for,” he added, laughing, “ Annette will watch me, I promise you.” The two men parted. George, the younger one, was slightly mortified by the conversation we have narrated, although he exhibited no symptoms of his feelings to his brother. Yet he could not stifle the consciousness that his love of liquor was gradually strengthening. But he quieted himself with the re¬ flection that it would be easy for him at any time to break off the evil habit, and consequently he gave little heed to his brother’s advice. Having been but recently married, with every prospect of happiness at home, and success in business, he was not disposed to interrupt his present enjoyments, by gloomy antici¬ pations of the future. His brother Charles had gone to Europe on a pro¬ fessional tour. During more than a year, a regular correspondence was maintained between them; but 444 GEORGE SANDFORD. after this it languished, and then ceased. Charles re¬ mained in Europe three years; and during the last eighteen months of this time, he heard nothing of his brother. It was, therefore, with feelings more like sadness and fear, than joy, that he once more reached his native city after so long an absence. As his parents had long since been dead, he proceeded to the former residence of his brother. George had moved, but none of the neighbours knew’ where. The traveller walked rapidly down the street to the house of a former friend, but he was also gone. Several other visits were attended with a like result. He began to be alarmed ; and, after standing some time in uncer¬ tainty, moved towards a large store, for the purpose of consulting a directory. While doing so, a mise¬ rable looking loafer reeled out of a grog-shop, and came down opposite to him. Before our traveller could step out of the way, the drunken man extended his hand, and exclaimed— “How d’ye do, brother?—how d’ye do?” at the same time wagging his hand up and down, while the other was thrust into his pocket. The other turned aside, and was about walking on. “ None of your shy—shy tricks, Charley,” said the drunken man, staggering from side to side, and nod¬ ding his head. Charles started, and scrutinized his new acquaint¬ ance with intense interest. Surely, this was not his brother, George! GEORGE SANDFORD. 445 MEETING OF THE BROTHER9. “I ain’t drunk,” he drawled, as his body swayed to and fro, with wondrous flexibility. “ I can take care of myself—I can—can’t you, Charley?” “ Who are you ?” exclaimed the astonished tra¬ veller. 446 GEORGE SANDFORD The other placed both hands in his pocket, and, balancing himself as if on wires, looked at Charles curiously with one eye, the only one open. “ I’m George Sandford,” he replied, again extend¬ ing his hand. “You!” exclaimed his brother. “George Sand¬ ford !” and involuntarily he raised his glass to his eye. It was so. The wretched object before him, ragged, hatless, and drunken, was the brother who, at his departure for Europe, had entered upon life with every prospect of success. Charles Sandford accompanied his brother to his residence. It consisted of but one room in the second story of a house, located in a disagreeable part of the town. Here, amid destitution of the most trying na¬ ture, sat Annette Sandford, holding an infant on her knee, while another, two years old, was standing cry¬ ing by her side. The alteration upon her husband had not been greater than that which grief had pro¬ duced upon her. “ Is the babe sick?” asked the elder Sandford, after the first salutations were over. . “It has never been well, brother,” Annette an¬ swered. “ It wastes away daily.” “ What is it’s name?” “ Charles,” the other answered. “ We named it after you; but it will not live to name you.” There was a pause. “You have altered, Annette,” the brother would have said, but he feared to wound the poor wife’s feelings, and refrained. Unlocking his carpet bag, he took from it some food, and called the GEORGE SANDFORD. 447 little girl to him. She clapped her hands with joy, as the welcome meal w r as offered to her, eating it w T ith an eagerness which showed that she had not tasted food for many hours. “ A change has come over us, Charles,” said the wife, as she strove to conceal her emotion. The brother nodded. “We waited long for you,” she continued, “but you did not come. Many a night I have lain awake, wishing I could but see you once more.” “ And you have suffered so long, alone?” “ Oh, brother, I have suffered!” she answered. “ If I should tell you all the shame, and sickness, and racking anxiety—but I will not complain. God will deliver me some day from this w 7 orld of misery. Yet it is for my little ones that I am willing to live and suffer here a few years longer.” “ l r ou must go with me, Annette.” “ Where ?” “ To a place of comfort, where you may live as you deserve to do. Your children shall be with you, with servants of your own choice, and a house to yourself.” “ But, brother, must I be alone ? “ What do you mean, Annette ?” “Oh, Charles, I scarcely dare mention it! You are too kind—yet my husband—I cannot help it, brother, but miserable and degraded as he is, I love him still.” “ He shall be provided for, sister; but he must no 448 GEORGE SANDFORD longer have the opportunity to make life a burden to you.” “But I will see him sometimes?” “Yes.” “ And know that he is taken care of?” “Yes.” The arrangements were soon completed. Mrs. Sandford was transferred to commodious apartments, and every effort made by Charles to reclaim his erring brother. For a while there seemed little pros¬ pect of success; but ultimately he signed the tempe¬ rance pledge, and became as respectable and useful, as he had been worthless. r * BOSTON COLLEGE 3 9031 01 585900 2