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Title: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life
Author: T.S. Arthur
Edition: 10
Language: English
Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4627]
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THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF REAL LIFE.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
PHILADELPHIA:
1851.
PREFACE.
To all, as they pass through the world, come "light and shadow."
Though the sun may be in the heavens, clouds often intervene, and
cast deep shadows about our footsteps. But, it is a truth which we
cannot too deeply lay to heart, that, in our life, as in nature, the
exhalations which form the obscuring cloud arise from below. They
are not born in the pure heavens, but spring out of the earth
beneath. If there was nothing evil in the mind, there would be no
cloud in the sky of our being,--all would be "eternal sunshine."
If, therefore, in this book the lights and shadows are blessed; if,
in a word, the clouds often hang heavy and remain long in the sky,
the fault is in those whose histories we have written. But the sky
does not always remain dark. As the heart becomes filled with better
purposes through the trials and pains of adversity, or comes out
purer from the furnace of affliction, the clouds disperse, and the
blessed sunlight comes again. Lay this up for your consolation, all
ye who are in trouble and affliction, and look hopefully in the
future. It will not always remain dark as in the present time.
PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.
ACCOMPANYING this volume, is a brief auto-biography. In circulating
Mr. Arthur's "Sketches of Life and Character," the publisher met so
frequently with an expressed desire to know something of one whose
writings had made him a general favorite that he was led to solicit
a personal sketch, to go with a new collection of his writings. It
is but due to the author to say, that his concurrence in the matter
was not without considerable reluctance. From this sketch it will be
seen that Mr. Arthur is a self-made man, and that he has gained his
present enviable position through long and patient labor, and
against the pressure of much that was adverse and discouraging. In
his elevation he has this pleasing reflection, that in seeking to
gain a high place for himself, he has dragged no one down, but
rather, sought to carry along, in his upward way, all who could be
induced to go with him.
The portrait given in this volume, was engraved from one recently
painted by Lambdin, and is considered a very good likeness. Mr.
Arthur is now in his forty-second year, and looks somewhat younger
than the artist has represented him.
For the information of those who wish to procure Mr. Arthur's
Temperance Tales, the publisher would state, that in "Lights and
Shadows of Real Life," are included all the stories contained in the
recently issued edition of "Illustrated Temperance Tales," besides
nearly two hundred pages of additional matter, thus making a larger,
more miscellaneous, and more acceptable book for all readers.
BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
In compliance with the earnest request of the publisher of this
volume, I have, with a reluctance that I find it difficult to
overcome, consented to furnish a brief sketch personal to myself.
Although my name has been constantly appearing for some twelve or
fifteen years, yet I have lost none of that, shrinking from
notoriety and observation which made me timid and retiring when a
boy. The necessity to write as a means of livelihood, and to write a
great deal, has brought me so frequently before the public, that I
have almost ceased to think about the matter as any thing more than
an ordinary occurrence; but, now, when called upon to write about
myself, I find that the edge of a natural sensitiveness is quite as
keen as ever. But, I will call the feeling a weakness, and try to
repress it until I have finished my present task.
I was born in the year 1809, near Newburgh, Orange County, New York;
and my eyes first opened on the beautiful scenery of the Hudson. My
earliest recollection is of Fort Montgomery, some six miles below
West Point, on the river, where my parents resided for a few years
previous to 1817. In the Spring of that year, they removed to
Baltimore, which became my place of residence until 1841, when I
came to Philadelphia, where I have since lived.
My early educational advantages were few. There were no public
schools in Maryland, when I was a boy, and, as my father had a large
family and but a moderate income, he could afford to send his
children to school only for a limited period. He knew the value,
however, of a good education, and did all for us in his power.
Especially did he seek to inspire his children with a regard for
religious truth, and, both by precept and example, to lead them into
the practice of such things as were honest and of good rest. In all
this, he was warmly seconded by a mother who still survives; and for
whom, it is but just to say, that her children feel the tenderest
regard--and well may they do so, for they owe her much.
At school, I was considered a very dull boy. My memory was not
retentive, and I comprehended ideas and formulas expressed by others
in a very imperfect manner. I needed a careful, judicious, and
patient teacher, who understood the character of my mind, and who
was able to come down to it with instruction in the simplest and
clearest forms; thus helping me to think for myself and to see for
myself. Instead of this, I was scolded and whipped because I could
not understand things that were never explained. As, for instance, a
slate and pencil were placed in my hands after I had learned to
read, upon which was a sum in simple addition for which I was
required to find an answer. Now, in the word, "Addition," as
referring to figures, I saw no meaning. I did not comprehend the
fact, in connexion with it, that two and two made four. True, I had
learned my "Addition Table," but, strangely enough, that did not
furnish me with any clue towards working out the problem of figures
set for me on my slate. I was then in my ninth year; and I can
remember, to this day, with perfect distinctness, how utterly
discouraged I became, as day by day went by, and still I had not
found a correct result to any one of my sums, nor gained a single
ray of light on the subject. Strange as it may seem, I remained for
several months in simple addition before I knew how to sum up
figures, and then the meaning of addition flashed, in a sudden
thought upon my mind, while I was at play. I had no trouble after
that. During the next week, I escaped both scolding and "belaboring"
(a favorite phrase of my teacher's), and then passed on to
subtraction. Five minutes devoted to an explanation, in some simple
form, of what "Addition" meant, would have saved me the loss of
months, to say nothing of the pain, both mental and bodily, that I
suffered during the time.
With such a mind and such a teacher, it is no wonder that I made but
little progress during the few years that I went to school. Beyond
reading and writing, Arithmetic and English Grammar included the
entire range of my studies. As for Arithmetic, I did not master half
the common rules, and Grammar was to my mind completely
unintelligible.
In the end, my teacher, declared that it was only wasting time and
money to send me to school, and advised my father to put me out to a
trade. This was done. I left home and entered upon an apprenticeship
shortly after passing my thirteenth year.
If I found it extremely difficult to comprehend ideas as expressed
in ordinary written forms, I was not without thoughts of my own. I
had an active mind, and soon after entering upon my apprenticeship
the desire for knowledge became strong. As food for this was
supplied, even though in a stinted measure, the desire gained
strength, and I began a system of self-education that was continued
for years afterwards. Of course, the system was a very imperfect
one. There was no one to select books for me, nor to direct my mind
in its search after knowledge. I was an humble apprentice boy,
inclined from habit to shrink from observation, and preferring to
grope about in the dark for what I was in search off, rather than
intrude my wants and wishes upon others. Day after day I worked and
thought, and night after night I read and studied, while other boys
were seeking pleasure and recreation. Thus, through much
discouragement, the years passed by; and thus time went on, until I
attained the age of manhood, when, defective sight compelled me to
give up the trade I had been acquiring for over seven years.
Beyond this trade, my ability to earn a living was small. My efforts
at self-education had been guided by no definite aims in life. I had
read, studied and thought, more to gratify a desire for knowledge
than to gain information with the end of applying it to any
particular use. The consequence was, that on reaching manhood, I
entered the world at a great disadvantage. My trade, to learn which
I had spent so many years, could not be followed, except at the risk
of losing my sight, which had failed for the three preceding years
with such rapidity that I was now compelled to use glasses of strong
magnifying power. I had but slight knowledge of figures, and was
not, therefore, competent, to take the situation of a clerk. At this
point in my life, I suffered from great discouragement of mind.
Through the kind offices of a friend, a place was procured for me in
a counting room, at a very small salary, where but light service was
required, and where I found but few opportunities for acquiring a
knowledge of business. Here I remained for over three years, almost
as much shut out from contact with the business world as when an
apprentice, and with plenty of time on my hands for reading and
writing, which I improved.
The necessity for a larger income caused me to leave this place, and
accept of one in which a higher ability was required. In 1833 I went
to the West as agent for a Banking Company; but the institution
failed and I returned to Baltimore, out of employment. During all
this time, I was devoting my leisure moments to writing, not that I
looked forward to authorship as a trade--nothing could have been
more foreign to my thoughts;--I continued to write, as I had begun,
prompted by an impulse that I felt little inclination to resist.
At this point in my life, I was induced, in association with a
friend who was as fond of writing as myself, to assume the editorial
charge of a literary paper. And here began, in earnest, my literary
labors, that have since continued with only brief periods of
intermission.
As an author, I have never striven for mere reputation; have never
sought to make a name. Circumstances, over which I had little
control, guided my feet, and I walked onward in the path that opened
before me, not doubting but that I was in the right way. If other
employment had offered; if I had received a good business education,
and been able, through that means, to have advanced myself in the
world, I would, like thousands of others who had an early fondness
for literary pursuits, soon have laid aside my pen and given to
trade the best energies of my mind. But Providence guided my feet
into other paths than these. They were rough and thorny at times,
and I often fainted by the way; yet renewed strength ever came when
I felt the weakest. If my earnest labor has not been so well
rewarded in a money-sense as it might have been had I possessed a
business education at the time of my entrance upon life, my reward
in another sense has been great. Though I have not been able to
accumulate wealth, I have gained what wealth alone cannot give, a
wide-spread acknowledgment that in my work I have done good to my
fellow men. This acknowledgment comes back upon me from all
directions, and I will not deny that it affords me a deep interior
satisfaction. Could it be otherwise? And with this heart-warming
satisfaction, there arises ever in my mind a new impulse, prompting
to still more earnest efforts in the cause of humanity.
My choice of temperance themes has not arisen from any experience in
my own person of the evils of intemperance, but from having been an
eye and ear witness to some of the first results of
Washingtonianism, and seeing, in the cause, one worthy the best
efforts of my pen. The temperance cause I recognized as a good
cause, and I gave it the benefit of whatever talent I possessed. And
I have the pleasant assurance, from very many who have had better
opportunities to know than myself, that my labor has not been in
vain. Thus much I have ventured to write of myself. Beyond this, let
my works speak for me. I can say no more.
Philadelphia, May, 1850.
T. S. A.
CONTENTS.
THE FACTORY GIRL.
THE TWO PICTURES.
BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE.
THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.
TIME, FAITH, ENERGY.
FLUSHED WITH WINE.
SWEARING OFF.
THE FAILING HOPE.
TAKING TOLL.
THOU ART THE MAN.
THE TOUCHING REPROOF.
THE TEMPERANCE SONG.
THE DISTILLER'S DREAM.
THE RUINED FAMILY.
THE RUMSELLERS DREAM.
HOW TO CURE A TOPER.
THE BROKEN PLEDGE.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE.
WINE ON THE WEDDING NIGHT.
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT.
THE IRON WILL.
A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.
THREE HUNDRED A YEAR.
I'LL SEE ABOUT IT.
THE FIERY TRIAL.
THE SISTERS.
THE MAIDEN'S ERROR.
THE FACTORY GIRL.
THERE was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. His
farm, once the best tilled and most productive in the neighbourhood,
began to show evidences of neglect and unfruitfulness; and that he
was going behindhand in the world, was too apparent in the fact,
that, within two years he had sold twenty acres of good meadow, and,
moreover, was under the necessity of borrowing three hundred dollars
on a mortgage of his landed property. And yet, Mr. Bacon had not
laid aside his habits of industry. He was up, as of old, with the
dawn, and turned not his feet homeward from the field until the sun
had taken his parting glance from the distant hill-tops.
A kind-hearted, cheerful-minded man was old Mr. Bacon, well liked by
all his neighbours, and loved by his own household. His two oldest
children died ere reaching the age of manhood; three remained. Mary
Bacon, the eldest of those who survived, now in her nineteenth year,
had been from earliest childhood her father's favourite; and, as she
advanced towards womanhood, she had grown more and more into his
heart. In his eyes she was very beautiful; and his eyes, though
partial, did not deceive him very greatly, for Mary's face was fair
to look upon.
We have said that Mr. Bacon was a kind-hearted cheerful-minded man.
And so he was; kind-hearted and cheerful, even though clouds were
beginning to darken above him, and a sigh from the coming tempest
was in the air. Yet not so uniformly cheerful as of old, though
never moody nor perverse in his tempers. Of the change that was in
progress, the change from prosperity to adversity, he did not seem
to be _painfully_ conscious.
Yes, there was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. A
habit indulged through many years, had acquired a dangerous
influence over him, and was gradually destroying his rational
ability to act well in the ordinary concerns of life. As a young
man, Mr. Bacon drank "temperately," and he drank "temperately" in
the prime of life; and now, at sixty, he continued to drink
"temperately," that is, in his own estimation. There were many,
however, who had reason to think differently. But Mr. Bacon was no
bar-room lounger; in fact, he rarely, if ever, went to a public
house; it was in his own home and among his household treasures,
that he placed to his lips the cup of confusion.
The various temperance reforms had all found warm advocates among
his friends and neighbours; but Mr. Bacon stood aloof. He would have
nothing to do in these matters.
"Let them join temperance societies who feel themselves in danger,"
was his good natured answer to all argument or persuasion addressed
to him on the subject.
He did not oppose nor ridicule the movement. He thought it a good
thing; only, he had in it no personal interest.
And so Mr. Bacon went on drinking "temperately" until habit, from
claiming a moderate indulgence, began to make, so it seemed to his
friends, rather unreasonable demands. Besides this habit of
drinking, Mr. Bacon had another habit, that of industry; and, what
was unusual, the former did not abate the latter, though it must be
owned that it sadly interfered with its efficiency. He was up, as we
have said, with the dawn, and all the day he was busy at work; but,
somehow or other, his land did not produce as liberally as in former
times, and there was slowly creeping over every thing around him an
aspect of decay. Moreover, he did not manage, as well as formerly,
the selling part of his business. In fact, his shrewdness of mind
was gone. Alcohol had confused his brain. Gradually he was
retrograding; and, while more than half conscious of the ruin that
was in advance of him, he was not fully enough awake to feel
seriously alarmed, nor to begin anxiously to seek for the cause of
impending evil. And so it went on until Mr. Bacon, suddenly found
himself in the midst of real trouble. The value of his farm, which,
after parting with the twenty acres of meadow land, contained but
twenty-five acres, had been yearly diminishing in consequence of bad
culture, and defective management of his stock had reduced that
until it was of little consequence.
The holder of the mortgage was a man named Dyer, who kept a tavern
in the village that lay a mile distant from the little white
farm-house of Mr. Bacon. When Dyer commenced his liquor-selling
trade, for that was his principal business, he had only a few
hundred dollars; now he was worth thousands, and was about the only
man in the neighbourhood who had money to lend. His loans were
always made on bond and mortgage, and, it was a little remarkable,
that he was never known to let a sober, industrious farmer or
store-keeper have a single dollar. But, a drinking man, who was
gradually wasting his substance, rarely applied to him in vain; for
he was the cunning spider watching for the silly fly. More than one
worn-out and run-down farm had already come into his hands, through
the foreclosure of mortgages, at a time of business depression, when
his helpless victims could find no sympathizing friends able to save
them from ruin.
One day, in mid-winter, as Mr. Bacon was cutting wood at his rather
poorly furnished wood pile, the tavern-keeper rode up. There was
something in his countenance that sent a creeping sense of fear to
the heart of the farmer.
"Good morning, Mr. Dyer," said he.
"Good morning," returned the tavern-keeper, formally. His usual
smile was absent from his face.
"Sharp day, this."
"Yes, rather keen."
"Won't you walk in and take something?"
"No, thank you. H-h-e-em!"
There was a pause.
"Mr. Bacon."
The farmer's eye sunk beneath the cold steady look of Dyer.
"Mr. Bacon, I guess I shall have to call on you for them three
hundred dollars," said the tavern-keeper, in a firm voice.
"Can't pay that mortgage now, Mr. Dyer," returned Bacon, with a
troubled expression; "no use to think of it."
"Rather a cool way to treat a man after borrowing his money. I told
you when I lent it that I might want it at almost any time."
"Oh! no, Mr. Dyer. It was understood, distinctly, that from four to
six months' notice would be given," replied Mr. Bacon, positively.
"Preposterous!" ejaculated the tavern-keeper. "Never thought of such
a thing. Six months notice, indeed!"
"That was the agreement," said Mr. Bacon, firmly.
"Is it in the bond?"
"No, it was verbal, between us."
Dyer shook his head, as he answered,--
"No, sir. I never make agreements of that kind; the money was to be
paid on demand, and I have ridden over this morning to make the
demand."
"It is midwinter, Mr. Dyer," was replied in a husky voice.
"Well?"
"You know that a small farmer, like me, cannot be in possession, at
this season, of the large sum you demand."
"That is your affair, Mr. Bacon. I want my money now, and must have
it."
There was a tone of menace in the way this was said that Mr. Bacon
fully understood.
"I haven't thirty dollars, much less three hundred, in my
possession," said he.
"Borrow it, then."
"Impossible! money has not been so scarce for years. Every one is
complaining."
"You'd better make the effort, Mr. Bacon, I shall be sorry to put
you to any trouble, but my money will have to be forthcoming."
"You will not enter up the mortgage?" said the farmer.
"It will certainly come to that, unless you can pay it."
"That is what I call oppression!" returned Mr. Bacon, in momentary
indignation, for the utterance of which he was as quickly repentant.
"Good morning," said Dyer, suddenly turning his horse's head, and
riding off at a brisk trot.
For nearly five minutes, old Mr. Bacon stood with his axe resting on
the ground, lost in painful thought. Then he went slowly into the
house, and sitting down before the fire, let his head sink upon his
breast, and there mused on the trouble that was closing around him.
But there came no ray of light, piercing the thick darkness that had
fallen so suddenly.
Nothing was then said to his family on the subject, but it was
apparent to all that something was wrong, for the lips that gave
utterance to so many pleasant words, and parted so often in cheerful
smiles, were still silent."
"Are you not well, to-day?" asked Mrs. Bacon, as the family gathered
around the dinner-table, and she remarked her husband's unusually
sober face.
"Not very well," he replied.
"What ails you, father?" said Mary, with tender concern in her
voice, and her eyes were turned upon him with affectionate
earnestness.
"Nothing of much consequence, child," was answered evasively. "I
shall be better after dinner."
And as Mr. Bacon spoke he poured out a larger glass of brandy than
usual--he always had brandy on the table at dinner time--and drank
it off. This soon took away the keen edge of suffering from his
feelings, and he was able to affect a measure of cheerfulness. But
he did not deceive the eyes of Mrs. Bacon and Mary.
"I wonder what ails father!" said Mary, as soon as she was alone
with her mother.
"I don't know," answered Mrs. Bacon, thoughtfully, "he seems
troubled about something."
"I saw that Mr. Dyer, who keeps tavern over in Brookville, talking
with father at the wood-pile this morning."
"You did!" Mrs. Bacon spoke with a new manifestation of interest.
"Yes; and I thought, as I looked at him out of the window, that he
appeared to be angry about something."
Mrs. Bacon did not reply to this remark. Soon after, on meeting her
husband, she said to him,
"What did Mr. Dyer want this morning?"
"Something that he will not get," replied Mr. Bacon.
"The money he loaned you?"
"Yes."
"It's impossible to pay it back now, in the dead of winter," said
Mrs. Bacon, in a troubled tone of voice, "he ought to know that."
"And he does know it."
"What did you tell him?"
"That to lift the mortgage now was out of the question."
"Won't he be troublesome? You remember how he acted towards poor old
Mr. Peabody."
"I know he's a hard-hearted, selfish man. I don't believe that there
is a spark of humanity about him. But he'll scarcely go to
extremities with me. I don't fear that."
"Did he threaten?"
"Yes. But I hardly think that he was in earnest."
How far this last remark of old Mr. Bacon was correct, the following
brief conversation will show. It took place between Dyer and a
miserable pettyfogging lawyer, in Brookville, named Grant.
"I've got a mortgage on old Bacon's farm that I wish entered up,"
said the tavern-keeper, on calling at the lawyer's office.
"Can't he pay it off?" inquired Grant.
"Of course not. He's being running down for the last six or seven
years, and is now on his last legs."
"And so you mean to trip him up before he falls of himself." The
lawyer spoke in an unfeeling tone and with a sinister smile.
"If you please to say so," returned Dyer. "I've wanted that farm of
his for some time past. When I took the mortgage on it my object was
not a simple investment at legal interest; you know that I can do
better with money than six per cent a year."
"I should think you could," responded the lawyer, with a chuckle.
"When I loaned Bacon three hundred dollars, of course I never
expected to get the sum back again. I understood, perfectly well,
that sooner or later the mortgage would have to be entered up."
"And the farm becomes yours for half its real value."
"Exactly."
"Are you not striking to soon?" suggested the lawyer.
"No."
"Some friend may loan him the amount."
Dyer shook his head.
"It's a tight time in Brookville."
"I know."
"And still better for my purpose," said Dyer, in a low, meaning,
voice; "drunkards have few friends; none, in fact, willing to risk
their money on them. Put the screws to Bacon, and his farm will drop
into my hands like a ripe cherry."
"You can hardly call Bacon a drunkard. You never see him staggering
about, nor lounging in bar-rooms."
"Do you remember his farm seven years ago?"
"Perfectly well."
"Look at it now."
"There's a great difference, certainly."
"Isn't there! What's the reason of this?"
"Intemperance, I suppose."
"Drunkenness!" said the tavern-keeper. "That is the right word. He
don't spend much in bar-rooms, but look over his store bill and
you'll find rum a large item."
"Poor Bacon! He's a good sort of a man," remarked the lawyer. "I
can't help feeling sorry for him. He's his own worst enemy."
"I want you to push this matter through in the quickest possible
time," said Dyer, in a sharp, firm voice.
"Very well. It shall be done. I know my business."
"And I know mine," returned the tavern-keeper.
On the next day, Mr. Bacon was formally notified that proceedings
had been instituted for the satisfaction of the mortgage. This was
bringing the threatened evil before his eyes in the most direct
aspect. In considerable alarm and perturbation, he called over to
see Dyer.
"You cannot mean to press this matter on to the utmost extremity,"
said he, on meeting the tavern-keeper, the hard aspect of whose
features gave him little room for hope.
"I certainly mean to get my three hundred dollars," was replied.
"Can you not wait until after next harvest?"
"I have already told you that I want my money now," said Dyer, with
affected anger. "If you can pay me, well; if not, I will get my own
by aid of the Sheriff."
"That is a hard saying, Mr. Dyer," returned the farmer, in a subdued
voice.
"Nevertheless, it is a true one, friend Bacon, true as gospel."
"I haven't the money, nor can I borrow it, Mr. Dyer."
"Your misfortune, not mine. Though I must say, it is a little
strange."
"What is strange?"
"That a man who has lived in this community as long as you have,
can't find a friend willing to loan him three hundred dollars to
save his farm from the Sheriff. There's something wrong."
Yes, there was something wrong, and poor old Mr. Bacon felt it now
more deeply than ever. Another feeble effort at remonstrance was
made, when Mr. Dyer coldly referred him to Grant the lawyer, who had
now entire control of the business. But he did not go to him. He
felt that to do so would be utterly useless.
Regular proceedings were entered upon for the settlement of the
mortgage, and hurried to an issue as speedily as possible. It was
all in vain that Mr. Bacon sought to borrow three hundred dollars,
or to find some person willing to take the mortgage on his farm, and
let him continue to pay the interest. It was a season when few had
money to spare, and those who could have advanced the sum required,
hesitated about investing it where there was little hope of getting
the amount back again except by execution and sale. For, Mr. Bacon,
in consequence of his intemperance, was steadily running behindhand;
and all his neighbours knew it.
The effect of this trouble on the mind of Mr. Bacon was to cause him
to drink harder than before. His cheerful temper gave place to a
silent moodiness, when in partial states of sobriety, which where
now of rare occurrence, and he lost all interest in things around
him. A greater part of his time was spent in wandering restlessly
about his house or farm, but he put his hand to scarcely any work.
Deeply distressed were Mrs. Bacon and Mary. Each of them had called,
at different times on Mr. Dyer, in the hope of moving him by
persuasion to turn from his purpose.
But, only in one way would he agree to an amicable settlement, and
that was, by taking the farm for the mortgage and three hundred
dollars cash; by which means he would come into possession of
property worth from twelve to fifteen hundred dollars. This offer he
repeated to Mary, who was the last to call upon him in the hope of
turning him from his purpose.
"No! Mr. Dyer," said the young girl firmly, even while tears were in
her eyes. "My father will not let the place go at a third of its
real value."
"He over-estimates its worth," replied Dyer, with some impatience,
"and he'll find this out when it comes under the hammer."
"You will not, I am sure you will not, sacrifice my father's little
place,--the home of his children," said Mary, in an appealing voice.
"I shall certainly let things take their course," replied the
tavern-keeper. "Tell your father, from me, that he has nothing to
hope for from any change in my purpose, and that he need make no
more efforts to influence me. I will buy the place, as I said, for
six hundred dollars, its full value, or I will sell it for my
claim."
And saying this, the man left, abruptly, the room in which his
interview with Mary was held, and she, hopeless of making any
impression on his feelings, arose and retired from the house,
taking, with a sad heart, her way homeward. Never before had Mary, a
gentle-hearted, quiet, retiring girl, been forced into such rough
contact with the world at any point. Of this act of intercession for
her father, Mr. Bacon knew nothing. Had she dropped (sic) a a word
of her purpose in his hearing, he would have uttered a positive
interdiction. He loved Mary as the apple of his eye, and she loved
him with a tender, self-devoted affection. To him, she was a choice
and beautiful flower, and even though his mind had become, in a
certain degree, degraded and debased by intemperance, there was in
it a quick instinct of protection when any thing approached his
child.
Slowly and thoughtfully, with her eyes bent upon the ground, did
Mary Bacon pursue her way homeward; and she was not aware of the
approach of footsteps behind her, until a man stood by her side and
pronounced her name.
"Mr. Green!" said she, in momentary surprise, pausing as she looked
up.
Mr. Green was a farmer in easy circumstances, whose elegant and
highly cultivated place was only a short distance from her father's
residence. He was, probably, the richest man in the neighbourhood of
Brookville; though, exceedingly close in all money matters. Mr.
Bacon would have called upon him for aid in his extremity, but for
two reasons. One was, Mr. Green's known indisposition to lend money,
and the other was the fact that he had several times talked to him
about his bad drinking habits; at which liberty he had taken
offence, and retorted rather sharply for one of his mild temper.
The colour mounted quickly to Mary's face, as she paused and lifted
her eyes to the countenance of Mr. Green. The fact was, she had been
thinking about him, and, just at the moment he came to her side, she
had fully made up her mind to call upon him before going home.
"Well Mary," said he, kindly, and he took her hand.
Mary's lips quivered, but she could not utter a word.
Mr. Green moved on, still holding her hand, and she moved by his
side.
"I'm sorry to hear," said Mr. Green, "that your father is in
trouble. I learned it only an hour ago."
"That is just what I was coming to see you about," replied Mary,
with a boldness of speech that surprised even herself.
"Indeed! Then _you_ were coming to see me," said Mr. Green, in a
voice that was rather encouraging than otherwise.
"Yes, sir. But father knows nothing of my purpose."
"Oh! Well, Mary, what is it you wish to say to me?"
The young girl's bosom was heaving violently. Some moments passed
ere she felt calm enough to proceed. Then she said--
"Mr. Dyer has a mortgage on father's place for three hundred
dollars, and is going to sell it."
"Mr. Dyer is a hard man, and your father should not have placed
himself in his power," remarked Mr. Green.
"Unhappily, he is in his power."
"So it seems. Well, what do you wish me to do in the case?"
"To lend _me_ three hundred dollars," said Mary, promptly. Thus
encouraged to speak, she did not hesitate a moment.
"Lend _you_ three hundred dollars! returned Mr. Green, rather
surprised at the directness of her request. "For what use?"
"To pay off this mortgage, of course," replied Mary.
"But, who will pay me back my money?" inquired Mr. Green.
"I will," said Mary, confidently. "You! Pray where do you expect to
get so much money from?"
"I expect to earn it," was firmly answered.
Mr. Green paused, and turning towards Mary, looked earnestly into
her young face that was lit up with a beautiful enthusiasm.
"Earn it, did you say?"
"Yes, sir, I will earn and pay it back to you, if it takes a
lifetime to do it in."
"How will you earn it, Mary?"
Mary let her eyes fall to the ground, and stood for a moment or two.
Then looking up, she said--
"I will go to Lowell."
"To Lowell?"
"Yes, sir."
"And work in a factory?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Green moved on again, but in silence, and Mary walked with an
anxious heart by his side. For the distance of several hundred yards
they passed along and not a word was spoken.
"To Lowell?" at length dropped from the lips of Mr. Green, in a tone
half interrogative, half in surprise. Mary did not respond, and the
silence continued until they came to a point in the road where their
two ways diverged.
"Have you thought well of this, Mary?" said Mr. Green, as he paused
here, and laid his hand upon a gate that opened into a part of his
farm.
"Why should I think about it, Mr. Green?" replied Mary. "It is no
time to think, but to act. Hundreds of girls go into factories, and
it will be to me no hardship, but a pleasure, if thereby I can help
my father in this great extremity."
"Is he aware of your purpose?"
"Oh, no sir! no!"
"He would never listen to such a thing."
"Not for a moment."
"Then will you be right in doing what he must disapprove?"
"It is done for his sake. Love for him is my prompter, and that will
bear me up even against his displeasure."
"But he may prevent your going, Mary."
"Not if you will do as I wish."
"Speak on."
"Lend me three hundred dollars on my promise to you that I will
immediately go to Lowell, enter a factory, and remain at work until
the whole sum is paid back again from my earnings."
"Well!"
"I will then take the money and pay off the mortgage. This will
release father from his debt to Mr. Dyer, and bring me in debt to
you."
"I see."
"Father is an honest and an honourable man."
"He is, Mary," said Mr. Green. His voice slightly trembled, for he
was touched by the words of the gentle girl.
"He will not be able to pay you the debt in my stead."
"No."
"And, therefore, deeply reluctant as he may be to let me go, he
cannot say nay."
"Walk along with me to my house," said Mr. Green, as he pushed open
the gate at which he stood, "I must think about this a little more."
The result was according to Mary's wishes. Mr. Green was a true
friend of Mr. Bacon's, and he saw, or believed that he saw, in his
daughter's proposition, the means of his reformation. He, therefore,
returned into the village, and going to the office of Grant,
satisfied the mortgage on Mr. Bacon's property, and brought all the
papers relating thereto away and placed them in Mary's hands.
"Now," said he, on doing this, "I want your written promise to pay
me the three hundred dollars in the way proposed. I will draw up the
paper, and you must sign it."
The paper was accordingly drawn up and signed. It stipulated that
Mary was to start for Lowell within three weeks, and that she was to
have two years for the full payment of the debt.
"My brave girl!" said Mr. Green, as he parted with Mary. "No one
will be prouder of you than I, if you accomplish the work to which
you are about devoting yourself. Happy would I be, had I a daughter
with your true heart and noble courage."
Mary's heart was too full to thank him. But her sweet young face was
beaming with gratitude, as she turned away and hurried homeward.
Mr. Bacon was walking uneasily, backwards and forwards in the old
porch, when Mary entered the little garden gate. She advanced
towards him with a bright face, holding out as she did so, a small
package of papers.
"Good news, father!" she exclaimed. "Good news!
"How? What, child?" eagerly asked the old man, his mind becoming
suddenly bewildered.
"The mortgage is paid, and here is the release!" said Mary, still
holding out the package of papers.
"Paid! Paid, Mary! Who paid it?" returned Mr. Bacon, with the air of
a man awaking from a dream.
"I have paid it, father dear!" answered Mary, in a trembling voice;
and she kissed the old man's cheek, and then laid her face down upon
his breast.
"You, Mary?" Where did you get money?"
"I borrowed it," murmured the happy girl.
"Mary! Mary! what does this mean?" said the old man, pushing back
her face and gazing into it earnestly. "Borrowed the money! Why, who
would lend you three hundred dollars? Say, child!"
"I borrowed it of Mr. Green," replied Mary, and as she said this,
she glided past her father and entering into the house, hurried away
to her mother. But ere she had time to inform her of what she had
done, the father joined them, eager for some further explanations.
When, at last, he comprehended the whole matter, he was, for a time
like a man stricken down by a heavy blow.
"Never," said he, in the most solemn manner, "will I consent to
this. Mr. Green must take back his money. Let the farm go! It shall
not be saved at this price."
But he soon comprehended that it was too late to recall the act of
his daughter. The money had already passed into the hands of Dyer,
and the mortgage been cancelled. Still, he was fixed in his purpose
that Mary should not leave home to spend two long years of incessant
toil in a factory, and immediately called on Mr. Green in order to
make with him some different arrangement for the payment of the
loan. But, to his surprise and grief, he found that Mr. Green was
unyielding in his determination to keep Mary to her contract.
"Surely! surely! Mr. Green, "urged the distressed father," you will
not hold my dear child to this pledge, made under circumstances of
so trying a nature? You will not punish--I say _punish_--a gentle
girl like her for loving her father too well."
"If there is any hardship in the case," replied Mr. Green, calmly,
"you are at fault, and not me, Mr. Bacon."
"Why do you say that?" inquired the old man.
"For the necessity which drove your child to this act of
self-sacrifice, you are responsible."
"Oh sir! is this a time to wound me with words like these? Why do
you turn a seeming act of kindness into the sharpest cruelty?"
"I speak to you but the words of truth and soberness, Mr. Bacon.
These, no man should shrink from hearing. Seven years ago, your farm
was the most productive in the neighborhood, and you in easy
circumstances. What has produced the sad change now visible to all
eyes? What has taken from you the ability to manage your affairs as
prosperously as before? What has made it necessary for your child to
leave her father's sheltering roof and bury herself for two long
years in a factory, in order to save you from total ruin? Go home,
Mr. Bacon, and answer these questions to your own heart, and may the
pain you now suffer lead you to act more wisely in the future."
"My daughter shall not go!" exclaimed the old man, passionately.
"I hold her written pledge to repair to Lowell at the expiration of
three weeks, and to repay the loan I made her in two years. Will you
compel her to violate her contract?"
"I will execute another mortgage on my farm and pay you back the
loan."
"Act like a wise man," said Mr. Green. "Let your daughter carry out
her noble purpose, and thus relieve you from embarrassment."
"No, no, Mr. Green! I cannot think of this. Oh, sir! pity me! Do not
force my child away! Do not lay so heavy a burden on one so young.
Think of her as your own daughter, and do to me as you would
yourself wish to be done by."
But Mr. Green was deaf to all these appeals. He was a man of great
firmness of purpose, and not easily turned to the right nor to the
left.
During the next three weeks, Mr. Bacon tried every expedient in his
power, short of a total sacrifice of his little property, to raise
the money, but in vain. Except for a circumstance new in his life,
he would, in his desperation, have accepted Dyer's offer of six
hundred dollars for his farm, and thus prevented Mary's departure
for Lowell--that circumstance was his perfect sobriety. Not since
the day when Mr. Green charged upon him the responsibility of his
child's banishment from her father's house, had he tasted a drop of
strong drink. His mind was therefore clear, and he was restrained by
reason from acts of rashness, by which his condition would be
rendered far worse than it was already.
Bitter indeed were the sufferings of Mr. Bacon, during the quick
passage of the three weeks--at the expiration of which time Mary was
to leave home, in compliance with her contract--and the more bitter,
because his mind was unobscured by drink. At last, the moment of
separation came. It was a clear cold morning towards the latter end
of March, when Mary left, for the last time, her little chamber, and
came down stairs dressed for her journey. Ever, in the presence of
her father and mother, during the brief season of preparation, had
she maintained a cheerful and confident exterior; but, in her heart,
there was a painful shrinking back from the trial upon which she was
about entering. On going by the door of Mary's chamber, a few
minutes before she came down, Mrs. Bacon saw her daughter kneeling
at her bedside, with her face deeply buried among the clothes. Not
till that moment did she fully comprehend the trial through which
her child was passing.
The stage was at the door, and Mary's trunk strapped up in the boot
before she came down. In the porch stood her father and mother, and
her younger brother and sister, waiting her appearance.
"Good bye, father," said the excellent girl, in a cheerful voice, as
she reached out her hand.
Mr. Bacon caught it eagerly, and essayed to speak some tender and
encouraging words. But though his lips moved, there was no sound
upon the air.
"God bless you!" was at length uttered in a sobbing voice. A fervent
kiss was then pressed upon her lips, and the old man turned away and
staggered rather than walked back into the house.
More calmly the mother parted with her child. It was a great trial
for Mrs. Bacon, but she now fully comprehended the great use to flow
from Mary's self-devotion, and, therefore, with her last kiss,
breathed a word of encouragement.
"It is for your father. Let that sustain you to the end." A few
moments more, and the stage rolled away, bearing with it the very
sunlight from the dwelling of Mr. Bacon. Poor old man! Restlessly
did he wander about for days after Mary's departure, unable to apply
himself, except for a little while at a time, to any work; but his
inquietude did not drive him back to the cup he had abandoned. No,
he saw in it too clearly the cause of his present deep distress, to
look upon and feel its allurement. What had banished from her
pleasant home that beloved child, and sent her forth among strangers
to toil from early morning until the going down of the sun? Could he
love the cause of this great evil? No! There was yet enough virtue
in his heart to save him. Love for his child was stronger than his
depraved love of strong drink. A few more ineffectual efforts were
made to turn Mr. Green from his resolution to hold Mary to her
contract, and then the humbled father resigned himself to the
necessity he could not overcome, and with a clearer mind and a newly
awakened purpose, applied himself to the culture of his farm, which,
in a few months, had a more thrifty appearance than it had presented
for years.
In the mean time, Mary had entered one of the mills at Lowell, and
was doing her work there with a brave and cheerful spirit. Some
painful trials, to one like her, attended her arrival in the city
and entrance upon the duties assumed. But daily the trials grew
less, and she toiled on in the fulfilment of her contract with Mr.
Green, happy under the ever present consciousness that she had saved
her father's property, and kept their homestead as the gathering
place of the family. At the end of three months, she came back and
spent a week. How her young heart bounded with joy at the great
change apparent in every thing about the house and farm, but, most
of all, at the change in her father. He was not so light of word and
smilingly cheerful as in former times, but he was sober, perfectly
sober; and she felt that the kiss with which he welcomed her brief
return, was purer than it had ever been.
On the very day Mary came back, she called over to see Mr. Green,
and paid him thirty-seven dollars on account of the loan, for which
he gave her a receipt. Then he had many questions to ask about her
situation at Lowell, and how she bore her separation from home, to
all of which she gave cheerful answers, and, in the end, repeated
her thanks for the opportunity he had given her to be of such great
service to her father.
Mr. Green had a son who, during his term at college, exhibited
talents of so decided a character that his father, after some
deliberation, concluded to place him under the care of an eminent
lawyer in Boston. In this position he had now been for two years,
and was about applying for admission to the bar. As children, Henry
Green and Mary Bacon had been to the same school together, and, as
children, they were much attached to each other. Their intercourse,
as each grew older, was suspended by the absence of Henry at
college, and by other circumstances that removed the two families
from intimate contact, and they had ceased to think of each other
except when some remembrance of the past brought up their images.
After paying Mr. Green the amount of money which she had saved from
her earnings during the first three months of her factory life, Mary
left his house, and was walking along the carriage way leading to
the public road, when she saw a young man enter the gate and
approach her.
Although it was three years since she had met Henry Green, she knew
him at a glance, but he did not recognize her, although struck with
something familiar in her face as he bowed to her in passing.
"Who can that be?" said he to himself, as he walked thoughtfully
along. "I have seen her before. Can that be Mary Bacon? If so, how
much she has improved!"
On meeting his father, the young man asked if he was right in his
conjecture about the young person he had just passed, and was
answered in the affirmative.
"She was only a slender girl when I saw her last. Now, she is a
handsome young woman," said Henry.
"Yes, Mary has grown up rapidly," replied Mr. Green, evincing no
particular interest in the subject of his remark.
"How is her father doing now?" asked Henry.
"Better than he did a short time ago," was replied
"I'm glad to hear that. Does he drink as much as ever?"
"No. He has given up that bad habit."
"Indeed! Then he must be doing better."
"He ran himself down very low," said Mr. Green, "and was about
losing every thing, when Mary, like a brave, right-minded girl,
stepped forward and saved him."
"Mary! How did she do that, father?"
"Dyer had a mortgage of three hundred dollars on his farm, and was
going to sell him out in mid-winter, when nobody who cared to
befriend him had money to spare. On the very day I heard about his
trouble, Mary called on me and asked the loan of a sum sufficient to
lift the mortgage.
"But how could she pay you back that sum?" asked the young man in
surprise.
"I loaned her the amount she asked," replied Mr. Green, "and she has
just paid me the first promised instalment of thirty-seven dollars."
"How did she get the money?"
"She earned it with her own hands."
"Where?"
"In Lowell."
"You surprise me," said Henry. "And so, to save her father from
ruin, she has devoted her young life to toil in a factory?"
"Yes; and the effect of this self-devotion has been all that I hoped
it would be. It has reformed her father. It has saved him in a
double sense."
"Noble girl!" exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm.
"Yes, you may well say that, Henry," replied Mr. Green. "In the
heart of that humble factory girl is a truly noble and womanly
principle, that elevates her, in my estimation, far above any thing
that rank, wealth, or social position alone can possibly give."
"But father," said Henry, "is it right to subject her to so severe a
trial? It will take a long, long time, for her to earn three hundred
dollars. Does not virtue like hers--"
"I know what you would say," interrupted Mr. Green. "True I could
cancel the obligation and derive great pleasure from doing so, but
it is the conclusion of my better judgment, all things considered,
that she be permitted to fill up the entire measure of her contract.
The trial will fully prove her, and bring to view the genuine gold
of her character. Moreover, it is best for her father that she
should seem to be a sufferer through his intemperance. I say seem,
for, really, Mary experiences more pleasure than pain from what she
is doing. The trial is not so great as it appears. Her reward is
with her daily, and it is a rich reward."
Henry asked no further question, but he felt more than a passing
interest in what he had heard. In the course of a week, Mary
returned to Lowell and he went back to Boston.
Three months afterwards, Mary again came home to visit her parents,
and again called upon Mr. Green to pay over to him what she had been
able to save from her earnings. It so happened that Henry Green was
on a visit from Boston, and that he met her, as before, as she was
retiring from the house of his father. This time he spoke to her and
renewed their old acquaintance, even going so far as to walk a
portion of the way home with her. At the end of another three
months, they met again. Brief though this meeting was, it left upon
the mind of each the other's image more strongly impressed than it
had ever been. In the circle where Henry Green moved in Boston, he
met many educated, refined, and elegant young women, some of whom
had attracted him strongly; but, in the humble Mary Bacon, whose
station in life was that of a toiling factory girl, he saw a moral
beauty whose light threw all the allurements presented by these
completely into shadow.
Six months went by. Henry Green had been admitted to the bar, and
was now a practising attorney in Boston. It was in the pleasant
month of June and he had come home to spend a few weeks with his
family. One morning, a day or two after his return, as he sat
conversing with his father, the form of some one darkened the door.
"Ah Mary!" said the elder Mr. Green rising and taking the hand of
Mary Bacon, which he shook warmly. "My son, Henry," he added,
presenting the blushing girl to his son, who, in turn, took her hand
and expressed the pleasure he felt at meeting her. Knowing the
business upon which Mary had called, Henry, not wishing to be
present at its transaction, soon retired. As he did so, Mary drew
out her purse and took therefrom a small roll of bank bills, saying,
as she handed it to Mr. Green,
"I have come to make you another payment."
With a grave, business-like air, Mr. Green took the money and, after
counting it over, went to his secretary and wrote out a receipt.
"Let me see," said he, thoughtfully, as he came back with the
receipt in his hand. "How much does this make? One, two, three,
four, five quarterly payments. One hundred and eighty-seven dollars
and a half. You'll soon be through, Mary. There is nothing like
patience, perseverance, and industry. How is your father this
morning?"
"Very well, sir."
"I think his health has improved of late."
"Very much."
"And so has every thing around him. I was looking at his farm a few
days ago, and never saw crops in a finer condition. And how is your
health, Mary."
"Pretty good," was replied, though not with much heartiness of
manner.
Mr. Green now observed her more closely, and saw that her cheeks
were thinner and paler than at her last visit. He did not remark on
it, however, and, after a few words more of conversation, Mary arose
and withdrew.
It was, perhaps, an hour afterwards, that Henry said to his father,
"Mary Bacon doesn't look as well as when I last saw her."
"So it struck me," returned Mr. Green.
"I'm afraid she has taken upon her more than she has the strength to
accomplish. She is certainly paler and thinner than she was, and is
far from looking as cheerful and happy as when I saw her six months
ago."
Mr. Green did not reply to this, but his countenance assumed a
thoughtful expression.
"Mary is a good daughter," he at length said, as if speaking to
himself.
"There is not one in a thousand like her," replied Henry, with a
warmth of manner that caused Mr. Green to lift his eyes to his son's
face.
"I fully agree with you in that," he answered.
"Then, father," said Henry, "why hold her any longer to her
contract, thus far so honorably fulfilled. The trial has proved her.
You see the pure gold of her character."
"I have long seen it," returned Mr. Green.
"Her father is thoroughly reformed."
"So I have reason to believe."'
"Then act from your own heart's generous impulses, father, and
forgive the balance of the debt."
"Are you certain that she will accept what you ask me to give? Will
her own sense of justice permit her to stop until the whole claim is
satisfied?" asked Mr. Green.
"I cannot answer for that father," returned Henry. "But, let me beg
of you to at least make the generous offer of a release."
Mr. Green went to his secretary, and, taking a small piece of paper
from a drawer, held it up, and said--
"This, Henry, is her acknowledgment of the debt to me. If I write
upon it 'satisfied,' will you take it to her and say, that I hold
the obligation no farther."
"Gladly!" was the instant reply of Henry. "You could not ask me to
do a thing from which I would derive greater pleasure."
Mr. Green took up his pen and wrote across the face of the paper, in
large letters, "satisfied," and then, handing it to his son, said--
"Take it to her, Henry, and say to her, that if I had given way to
my feelings, I would have done this a year ago. And now, let me
speak a word for your ear. Never again, in this life, may a young
woman cross your path, whose character is so deeply grounded in
virtue, who is so pure, so unselfish, so devoted in her love, so
strong in her good purposes. Her position is humble, but, in a
life-companion, we want personal excellences, not extraneous social
adjuncts. You have my full consent to win, if you can, this sweet
flower, blooming by the way-side. A proud day will it be for me,
when I can call her my daughter. I have long loved her as such."
More welcome words than these Mr. Green could not have spoken to his
son. They were like a response to his own feelings. He did not,
however, make any answer, but took the contract in silence and
quickly left the room.
The reader can easily anticipate what followed. Mary did not go back
to Lowell. A year afterwards she was introduced to a select circle
of friends in Boston as the wife of Henry Green, and she is now the
warmly esteemed friend and companion of some of the most
intelligent, refined, right-thinking, and right-feeling people in
that city. Her husband has seen no reason to repent of his choice.
As for old Mr. Bacon, his farm has continued to improve in
appearance and value ever since his daughter paid off the mortgage;
and as he, once for all, banished liquor from his house, he is in no
danger of having his little property burdened with a new
encumbrance. His cheerfulness has returned, and he bears as of old,
the reputation of being the best tempered, best hearted man in the
neighborhood.
TWO PICTURES.
Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, the oldest but six years
of age, came in from school one evening, later than usual by half an
hour. Both their eyes were red with weeping, and their cheeks wet
with tears. Their father, Mr. Warren, who had come home from his
business earlier than usual, had been waiting some time for their
return, and wondering why they stayed so late. They were his only
children, and he loved them most tenderly. They had, a few weeks
before, been entered at a school kept by a lady in the
neighborhood--not so much for what they would learn, as to give
occupation to their active minds.
"Why, Anna! Willy!" exclaimed Mr. Warren, as the children came in,
"what's the matter? Why have you stayed so late?"
Anna lifted her tearful eyes to her father's face, and her lip
curled and quivered. But she could not answer his question.
Mr. Warren took the grieving child in his arms, and as he drew her
to his bosom, said to Willy, who was the oldest--
"What has made you so late, dear?"
"Miss Roberts kept us in," sobbed Willy.
"Kept you in!" returned Mr. Warren, in surprise. "How came that?"
"Because we laughed," answered the child, still sobbing and weeping.
"What made you laugh?"
"One of the boys made funny faces."
"And did you laugh too, dear?" asked the father of Anna.
"Yes, papa. But I couldn't help it. And Miss Roberts scolded so, and
said she was going to whip us."
"And was that all you did?"
"Yes, indeed, papa," said Willy.
"I'll see Miss Roberts about it," fell angrily from the lips of Mr.
Warren. "It's the last time you appear in her school. A cruel-minded
woman!"
And then the father soothed his grieving little ones with
affectionate words and caresses.
"Dear little angels!" said Mr. Warren to his wife, shortly
afterwards, "that any one could have the heart to punish them for a
sudden outburst of joyous feelings! And Anna in particular, a mere
babe as she is, I can't get over it. To think of her being kept in
for a long half hour, under punishment, after all the other children
had gone home. It was cruel. Miss Roberts shall hear from me on the
subject."
"I don't know, dear, that I would say any thing about it," remarked
the mother, who was less excited about the matter, "I don't think
she meant to be severe. She, doubtless, forgot that they were so
very young."
"She'd no business to forget it. I've no idea of my children being
used after this fashion. The boy that made them laugh should have
been kept in, if any punishment had to be inflicted. But it's the
way with cruel-minded people. The weakest are always chosen as
objects of their dislike."
"I am sure you take this little matter too much to heart," urged the
mother. "Miss Roberts must have order in her school, and even the
youngest must conform to this order. I do not think the punishment
so severe. She had to do something to make them remember their
fault, and restrain their feelings in future; and she could hardly
have done less. It is not too young for them to learn obedience in
any position where they are introduced."
But the over fond and tender father could see no reason for the
punishment his little ones had received; and would not consent to
let them go again to the school of Miss Roberts. To him they were
earth's most precious things. They were tender flowers; and he was
troubled if ever the winds blew roughly upon them.
Seven years have passed. Let us visit the home of Mr. Warren and
look at him among his children. No; we will not enter this pleasant
house--he moved away long ago. Can this be the home of Mr. Warren!
Yes. Small, poor, and comfortless as it is! Ah! there have been sad
changes.
Let us enter. Can that be Warren? That wretched looking
creature--with swollen, disfigured face and soiled garments--who
sits, half stupid, near the window? A little flaxen-haired child is
playing on the floor. It is not Anna. No; seven years have changed
her from the fairylike little creature she was when her father
became outraged at her punishment in Miss Roberts' school! Poor
Anna! That was light as the thistle down to what she has since
received from the hands of her father. The child on the floor is
beautiful, even in her tattered clothes. She has been playing for
some time. Now her father calls to her in a rough, grumbling voice.
"Kate! You, Kate, I say!"
Little Kate, not five years old, leaves her play and goes up to
where her parent is sitting.
"Go and get me a drink of water," said he in a harsh tone of
authority.
Kate takes a tin cup from a table and goes to the hydrant in the
yard. So pleased is she in seeing the water run, that she forgets
her errand. Three or four times she fills the cup, and then pours
forth its contents, dipping her tiny feet in the stream that is
made. In the midst of her sport, she hears an angry call, and
remembering the errand upon which she has been sent, hurriedly fills
her cup again and bears it to her father. She is frightened as she
comes in and sees his face; this confuses her; her foot catches in
something as she approaches, and she falls over, spilling the cup of
water on his clothes. Angrily he catches her up, and, cruel in his
passion, strikes her three or four heavy blows.
"Now take that cup and get me some water!" he cries, in a loud
voice, "and if you are not here with it in a minute, I'll beat the
life half out of you! I'll teach you to mind when your spoken to, I
will! There! Off with you!"
Little Kate, smarting from pain, and trembling with fear, lifts the
cup and hurries away to perform her errand. She drops it twice from
her unsteady hands ere she is able to convey it, filled with water,
to her parent, who takes it with such a threatening look from his
eyes, that the child shrinks away from him, and goes from the room
in fear.
An hour passes, and the light of day begins to fade.
Evening comes slowly on, and at length the darkness closes in. But
twice since morning has Warren been from the house, and then it was
to get something to drink. The door at length opens quietly, and a,
little girl enters. Her face is thin and drooping, and wears a look
of patient suffering.
"You're late, Anna," says the mother, kindly.
"Yes, ma'am. We had to stay later for our money. Mr. Davis was away
from the store, and I was afraid I would have to come home without
it. Here it is."
Mrs. Warren took the money.
"Only a dollar!" There was disappointment in her tones as she said
this.
"Yes, ma'am, that is all," replied Anna, in a troubled voice. "I
spoiled some work, and Mr. Davis said I should pay for it, and so he
took half a dollar from my wages."
"Spoiled your work!" spoke up the father, who had been listening.
"That's more of your abominable carelessness!"
"Indeed, father; I couldn't help it," said Anna, "one of the
girls--"
"Hush up, will you! I want none of your lying excuses. I know you!
It was done on purpose, I have not the least doubt."
Anna caught her breath, like one suddenly deprived of air. Tears
rushed to her eyes and commenced falling over her cheeks, while her
bosom rose and fell convulsively.
"Come, now! None of that!" said the cruel father sternly. "Stop your
crying instantly, or I will give you something to cry for! A pretty
state of things, indeed, when every word must be answered by a fit
of crying!"
The poor child choked down her feelings as best she could, turning
as she did so from her father; that he might not see the still
remaining traces of her grief which it was impossible at once to
hide.
Not a single dollar had the idle, drunken father earned during the
week, that he had not expended in self-indulgence; and yet, in his
brutality, he could roughly chide this little girl, yet too young
for the taskmaster, because she had lost half a dollar of her week's
earnings through an accident, the very nature of which he would not
hear explained. So grieved was the poor child at this unkindness,
that when supper was on the table she shrunk away from the room.
"Come, Anna, to your supper," called the mother.
"I don't wish any thing to eat," replied the child, in a faint
voice.
"Oh, yes; come and get something."
"Let her alone!" growls the father. "I never humor sulky children.
She doesn't deserve any supper."
The mother sighs. While the husband eats greedily, consuming,
himself, more than half that is on the table, she takes but a few
mouthfuls, and swallows them with difficulty.
After supper, Willy, who is just thirteen, and who has already been
bound out as an apprentice to a trade, comes home. He has a tale of
suffering to tell. For some fault his master has beaten him until
the large purple welts lie in meshes across his back from his
shoulders to his hips.
"How comes all this?" asks Mr. Warren. There is not the smallest
sign of sympathy in his voice.
Willy relates the cause, and tells it truly. He was something to
blame, but his fault needed not the correction of stripes even
lightly applied.
"Served you right!" said the father, when the story was ended. "No
business to have acted so. Do as you are told, and mind your work,
and you'll escape flogging. Otherwise, I don't care how often you
get it. You've been spoiled at home, and it'll do you good to toe
the mark. Did your master know you were coming home to-night?"
"No, sir," replied the boy, with trembling lips, and a choking
voice.
"Then what did you come for? To get pitied? Do right and you'll need
no pity."
"Oh, James, don't speak so to the child!" said Mrs. Warren, unable
to keep silence.
This was answered by an angry look.
"You must go back to your master, boy," said the father, after a
pause. "When you wish to come home, ask his consent."
"He doesn't object to my coming home," said Willy, his voice still
quivering.
"Go back, I tell you! Take your hat, there, and go back. Don't come
here any more with your tales!"
The boy glanced towards his mother, and read pity and sympathy in
her countenance, but she did not countermand the order; for she knew
that if she did so, a scene of violence would follow.
"Ask to come home in the morning," said she to her boy, as she held
his hand tightly in hers at the door. He gave her a look of tender
thankfulness, and then went forth into the darkness, feeling so sad
and wretched that he could not repress his tears.
Seven years. And was only this time required to effect such a
change! Ah! rum is a demon! How quickly does it transform the tender
husband and parent into a cruel beast! Look upon these two pictures,
ye who tarry long at the wine! Look at them, but do not say they are
overdrawn! They have in them only the sober hues and subdued colors
of truth.
BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE.
THE cholera had made its appearance in New York, and many deaths
were occurring daily. Among those who weakly permitted themselves to
feel an alarm amounting almost to terror, was a Mr. Hobart, who,
from the moment the disease manifested itself, became infested with
the idea that he would be one of its victims.
"Doctor," said he to his family physician, meeting him one day in
the street, "is there nothing which a man can take that will act as
a preventive to cholera?"
"I'll tell you what I do," replied the doctor.
"Well, what is it?"
"I take a glass of good brandy twice a day. One in the morning and
the other after dinner."
"Indeed! And do you think brandy useful in preventing the disease?"
"I think it a protection," said the doctor. "It keeps the system
slightly stimulated; and is, besides, a good astringent."
"A very simple agent," remarked Mr. Hobart.
"Yes, the most simple that we can adopt. And what is better, the use
of it leaves no after bad consequences, as is too often the case
with medicines, which act upon the system as poisons."
"Sometimes very bad consequences arise from the use of brandy,"
remarked Mr. Hobart. "I have seen them in my time."
"Drunkenness, you mean."
"Yes."
"People who are likely to make beasts of themselves had better let
it alone," said the doctor, contemptuously. "If they should take the
cholera and die, it will be no great loss to the world."
"And you really think a little good brandy, taken daily, fortifies
the system against the cholera?"
"Seriously I do," replied the doctor. "I have adopted this course
from the first, and have not been troubled with a symptom of the
disease."
"I feel very nervous on the subject. From the first I have been
impressed with the idea that I would get the disease and die."
"That is a weakness, Mr. Hobart."
"I know it is, still I cannot help it. And you would advise me to
take a little good brandy?"
"Yes, every day."
"I am a Son of Temperance."
"No matter; you can take it as medicine under my prescription. I
know a dozen Sons of Temperance who have used brandy every day since
the disease appeared in New York. It will be no violation of your
contract. Life is of too much value to be put in jeopardy on a mere
idea."
"I agree with you there. I'd drink any thing if I thought it would
give me an immunity against this dreadful disease."
"You'll be safer with the brandy than without it."
"Very well. If you think so, I will use it."
On parting with the doctor, Mr. Hobart went to a liquor store and
ordered half a gallon of brandy sent home. He did not feel
altogether right in doing so, for it must be understood, that, in
years gone by, Mr. Hobart had fallen into the evil habit of
intemperance, which clung to him until he run through a handsome
estate and beggared his family. In this low condition he was found
by the Sons of Temperance, who induced him to abandon a course whose
end was death and destruction, and to come into their Order. From
that time all was changed. Sobriety and industry were returned to
him in many of the good things of this world which he had lost, and
he was still in the upward movement at the time when the fatal
pestilence appeared.
On going home at dinner time, Hobart's wife said to him, with a
serious face--
"A demijohn, with some kind of liquor in it, was sent here to-day."
"Oh, yes," he replied, it is brandy that Doctor L--ordered me to
take as a cholera preventive."
"Brandy!" ejaculated Mrs. Hobart, with an expression of painful
surprise in her voice and on her countenance, that rather annoyed
her husband.
"Yes. He says that he takes it every day as a preventive, and
directed me to do the same."
"I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Indeed I wouldn't," said Mrs.
Hobart, earnestly.
"Why wouldn't you?"
"You will violate your contract with the Sons of Temperance."
"Not at all. Brandy may be used as a medicine under the prescription
of a physician. I wouldn't have thought of touching it had not
Doctor L--ordered me to do so."
"You are not sick, Edward."
"But there is death in the very air I breathe. At any moment I am
liable to be struck down by an arrow sent from an unseen bow, unless
a shield be interposed. Such a shield has been placed in my hands.
Shall I not use it?"
Mrs. Hobart knew her husband well enough to be satisfied that
remonstrance and argument would be of no avail, now that his mind
was m de up to use the brandy; and yet so distressed did she feel,
that she couldn't help saying, with tears in her eyes--
"Eaward,(sic) let me beg of you not to touch it."
"Would you rather see me in my coffin?" replied Mr. Hobart, with
some bitterness. "Death may seem a light thing to you, but it is not
so to me."
"You are not sick," still urged the wife.
"But I am liable, as I said just now, to take the disease every
moment."
"You will be more liable, with your system stimulated and disturbed
by brandy. Let well enough alone. Be thankful for the health you
have, and do not invite disease."
"The doctor ought to know. He understands the matter better than you
or I. He recommends brandy as a preventive. He takes it himself."
"Because he likes it, no doubt."
"It is silly for you to talk in that way," replied the husband, with
much impatience. "He isn't rendered more liable to the disease by
taking a little pure brandy, for he says that it keeps him perfectly
well."
"A glass of brandy every day may have been his usual custom," urged
Mrs. Hobart. "In that case, in its continuance, no change was
produced. But your system has been untouched by the fiery liquid for
nearly five years, and its sudden introduction must create
disturbance. It is reasonable."
"The doctor ought to know best," was replied to this. "He has
prescribed it, and I must take it. Life is too serious a matter to
be trifled with. 'An ounce of preventive is worth a pound of cure,'
you know."
"I am in equal danger with yourself," said Mrs. Hobart; "and so are
the children."
"Undoubtedly. And I wish you all to use a little brandy."
"Not a drop of the poison shall pass either my lips or those of the
children," replied Mrs. Hobart, with emphasis.
"As you please," said the husband, coldly, and turned away.
"Edward!" Mrs. Hobart laid her hand upon his arm. "Edward! Let me
beg of you not to follow this advice."
"Why will you act so foolishly? Has not the doctor ordered the
brandy? I look to him as the earthly agent for the preservation of
my health and the saving of my life. If I do not regard his advice,
in what am I to trust?"
"Remember the past, Edward," said the wife, solemnly.
"I do remember it. But I fear no danger."
Mrs. Hobart turned away sadly, and went up to her chamber to give
vent to her feelings alone in tears. Firm to his purpose of using
the preventive recommended by the doctor, Mr. Hobart, after dinner,
took a draught of brandy and water. Nearly five years, as his wife
remarked, had elapsed since a drop of the burning fluid had passed
his lips. The taste was not particularly agreeable. Indeed, his
stomach rather revolted as the flavor reached his palate.
"It's vile stuff at best," he remarked to himself, making a wry
face. "Fit only for medicine. Not much danger of my ever loving it
again. I wish Anna was not so foolish. A flattering opinion she has
of her husband!"
The sober countenance of his wife troubled Mr. Hobart, as he left
home for his place of business earlier by half an hour than usual.
Neither in mind nor body were his sensations as pleasant as on the
day before. The brandy did something more than produce an agreeable
warmth in his stomach. A burning sensation soon followed its
introduction, accompanied by a feeling of uneasiness that he did not
like. In the course of half an hour, this unnatural heat was felt in
every part of his body, but more particularly about his head and
face; and it was accompanied by a certain confusion of mind that
prevented his usual close application to business during the
afternoon.
Towards evening, these disagreeable consequences of the glass of
cholera-preventive he had taken in a great measure subsided; but
there followed a dryness of the palate, and a desire for some drink
more pleasant to the taste than water. In his store was a large
pitcher of ice-water; but, though thirsty, he felt no inclination to
taste the pure beverage; but, instead, went out and obtained a glass
of soda water. This only made the matter worse. The half gill of
syrup with which the water was sweetened, created, in a little
while, a more uneasy feeling. Still, there was no inclination for
the water that stood just at hand, and which he had daily found so
refreshing during the hot weather. In fact, when he thought of it,
it was with a sense of repulsion.
In this state, the idea of a cool glass of brandy punch, or a mint
julep, came up in his mind, and he felt the draught, in imagination,
at his lips.
"A little brandy twice a day; so the doctor said." This was uttered
half aloud.
Just at the moment a slight pain crossed his stomach. It was the
first sensation of the kind he had experienced since the epidemic he
so much dreaded had appeared in the city; and it caused a slight
shudder to go through his frame, for he was nervous in his fear of
cholera.
"A little mint with the brandy would make it better still. I don't
like this feeling. I'll try a glass of brandy and mint." Thus spoke
Mr. Hobart to himself.
Putting on his hat, he went forth for the purpose of getting some
brandy and mint. As he stepped into the street the pain was felt
again, and more distinctly. The effect was to cause a slight
perspiration to manifest itself on the face and forehead of Mr.
Hobart, and to make, in his mind, the necessity for the brandy and
mint more imperative. He did not just like to be seen going boldly
in at the door of a refectory or drinking-house in a public place,
for he was a Son of Temperance, and any one who knew this and
happened to see him going in, could not, at the same time, know that
he was acting under his physician's advice. So he went off several
blocks from the neighborhood in which his store was located, and
after winding his way along a narrow, unfrequented street, came to
the back entrance of a tavern, where he went in, as he desired,
unobserved.
Years before, Hobart had often stood at the bar where he now found
himself. Old, familiar objects and associations brought back old
feelings, and he was affected by an inward glow of pleasure.
"What! you here?" said a man who stood at the bar, with a glass in
his hand. He was also a member of the Order.
"And you here!" replied Mr. Hobart.
"It isn't for the love of it, I can assure you," remarked the man,
as he looked meaningly at his glass. "These are not ordinary times."
"You are right there," said Hobart. "A little brandy sustains and
fortifies the system. That all admit."
"My physician has ordered it for me. He takes a glass or two every
day himself, and tells me that, so far, he has not been troubled
with the first symptom."
"Indeed. That is testimony to the point."
"So I think."
"Who is your physician?"
"Dr. L--."
"He stands high. I would at any time trust my life in his hands."
"I am willing to do so." Then turning to the bar-keeper, Mr. Hobart
said--"I'll take a glass of brandy and water, and you may add some
mint."
"Perhaps you'll have a mint julep?" suggested the barkeeper, winking
aside to a man who stood near, listening to what passed between the
two members of the Order.
"Yes--I don't care--yes. Make it a julep," returned Hobart. "It's
the brandy and mint I want. I've had a disagreeable sensation," he
added, speaking to the friend he had met, and drawing his hand
across his stomach as he spoke, "that I don't altogether like. Here
it is again!"
"A little brandy will help it."
"I hope so."
When the mint julep was ready, Hobart took it in his hand and
retired to a table in the corner of the room, and the man he had met
went with him.
"Ain't you afraid to tamper with liquor?" asked this person, a
little seriously, as he observed the relish with which Hobart sipped
the brandy. Some thoughts had occurred to himself that were not very
pleasant.
"Oh, no. Not in the least," replied Mr. Hobart. "I only take it as a
medicine, under my physician's order; and I can assure you that the
taste is quite as disagreeable as rhubarb would be. I believe the
old fondness has altogether died out."
"I'm afraid it never dies out," said the man, whose eyes told him
plainly enough, that it had not died out in the case of the
individual before him, notwithstanding his averment on the subject.
"I feel much better now," said Mr. Hobart, after he had nearly
exhausted his glass. "I had such a cold sensation in my stomach,
accompanied by a very disagreeable pain. But both are now gone. This
brandy and mint have acted like a charm. Dr. L--understands the
matter clearly. It is fortunate that I saw him this morning. I would
not have dared to touch brandy, unless under medical advice; and,
but for the timely use of it, I might have been dangerously ill with
this fatal epidemic."
After sitting a little while longer, the two men retired through the
back entrance to escape observation.
"How quickly these temperance men seize hold of any excuse to get a
glass of brandy," said the bar-keeper to a customer, as soon as
Hobart had retired, laughing in a half sneer as he spoke. "They come
creeping in through our back way, and all of them have a pain! Ha!
ha!"
"I've taken a glass of brandy and water, every day for the last five
years," replied the man to whom this was addressed, "and I continue
it now. But I can tell you what, if I'd been an abstainer, you
wouldn't catch me pouring it into my stomach now. Not I! All who do
so are more liable to the disease."
"So I think," said the bar-tender. "But every one to his liking. It
puts money in our till. We've done a better business since the
cholera broke out, than we've done these three years. If it were to
continue for a twelve month we would make a fortune."
This was concluded with a coarse laugh, and then he went to attend
to a new customer for drink.
For all Mr. Hobart had expressed himself so warmly in favor of
brandy, and had avowed his freedom from the old appetite, he did not
feel altogether right about the matter. There was a certain pressure
upon his feelings that he could not well throw off. When he went
home in the evening, he perceived a shadow on the brow of his wife;
and the expression of her eyes, when she looked at him, annoyed and
troubled him.
After supper, the uneasiness he had felt during the afternoon,
returned, and worried his mind considerably. The fact was, the
brandy had already disturbed the well balanced action of the lower
viscera. The mucous membrane of the whole (sic) alementry canal had
been stimulated beyond health, and its secretions were increased and
slightly vitiated. This was the cause of the uneasiness he felt, and
the slight pains which had alarmed him. By ten o'clock his feelings
had become so disagreeable, that he felt constrained to meet them
with another "mouthful," of brandy. Thus, in less than ten hours,
Mr. Hobart had wronged his stomach by pouring into it three glasses
of brandy; entirely disturbing its healthy action.
The morning found Mr. Hobart far from feeling well. His skin was dry
and feverish and his mouth parched. There was an uneasy sensation of
pain in his head. Immediately upon rising he took a strong glass of
brandy. That, to use his own words, "brought him up," and made him
feel "a hundred per cent better." During the forenoon, however, a
slight diarrhoea manifested itself. A thrill of alarm was the
consequence.
"I must check this!" said he, anxiously. And, in order to do so,
another and stronger glass of brandy was taken.
In the afternoon, the diarrhoea appeared again. It was still slight,
and unaccompanied by pain. But, it was a symptom not to be
disregarded. So brandy was applied as before. In the evening, it
showed itself again.
"I wish you would give me a little of that brandy," said he to his
wife. "I'm afraid of this, it must be stopped."
"Hadn't you better see the doctor?"
"I don't think it necessary. The brandy will answer every purpose."
"I have no faith in brandy," said Mrs. Hobart. Poor woman! she had
cause for her want of faith!
"I have then," replied her husband. "It's the doctor's
recommendation. And he ought to know."
"You were perfectly well before you commenced acting on his advice."
"I was well, apparently. But, it is plain that the seeds of disease
were in me. There is no telling how much worse I would have been."
"Nor how much better. For my part I charge it all on the brandy."
"That's a silly prejudice," said Mr. Hobart, with a good deal of
impatience. "Every one knows that brandy is a remedy in diseases of
this kind; not a producing cause."
Mrs. Hobart was silent. But she did not get the brandy. That was
more than she could do. So her husband got it himself. But, in order
to make the medicinal purpose more apparent, he poured the liquor
into a deep plate, added some sugar, and set it on fire.
"You will not object to burnt brandy at least," said he. "That you
know to be good."
Mrs. Hobart did not reply. She felt that it would be useless. Only a
disturbance of harmony could arise, and that would produce greater
unhappiness. The brandy, after having parted with its more volatile
qualities, was introduced into Mr. Hobart's stomach, and fretted
that delicate organ for more than an hour.
"I thought the burnt brandy would be effective," said Mr. Hobart on
the next morning. "And it has proved so." In order not to lose this
good effect, he fortified himself before going out with some of the
same article, unburnt. But, alas! By ten o'clock the diarrhoea showed
itself again, and in a more decided form.
Oh dear!" said he in increased alarm. "This won't do. I must see the
doctor." And off he started for Doctor L--'s office. But, on the
way he could not resist the temptation to stop at a tavern for
another glass of brandy, notwithstanding he began to entertain a
suspicion as to the true cause of the disturbance. The doctor
happened to be in. "I think I'd better have a little medicine,
doctor," said he, on seeing his medical adviser. A stitch in time,
you know."
"Ain't you well?"
"No," and Mr. Hobart gave his symptoms.
"An opium pill will do all that is required," said the doctor.
"Shall I continue the brandy?" asked the patient.
"Have you taken brandy every day since I saw you?" inquired the
doctor.
"Yes; twice, and sometimes three times."
"Ah!" The doctor looked thoughtful.
"Shall I continue to do so?"
"Perhaps you had better omit it for the present. You're not in the
habit of drinking any thing?"
"No. I haven't tasted brandy before for five years."
"Indeed! Yes, now, I remember you said so. You'd better omit it
until we see the effect of the opium. Sudden changes are not always
good in times like these."
"I don't think the brandy has hurt me," said Mr. Hobart.
"Perhaps not. Still, as a matter of prudence, I would avoid it. Let
the opium have a full chance, and all will be right again."
An opium pill was swallowed, and Mr. Hobart went back to his place
of business. It had the intended effect. That is, it cured one
disease by producing another--suspended action took the place of
over-action. He was, therefore, far from being in a state of health,
or free from danger in a cholera atmosphere. There was one part of
the doctor's order that Mr. Hobart did not comply with. The free use
of brandy for a few days rekindled the old appetite, and made his
desire for liquor so intense, that he had not, or, if he possessed
it, did not exercise the power of resistance.
Sad beyond expression was the heart of Mrs. Hobart, when evening
came, and her husband returned home so much under the influence of
drink as to show it plainly. She said nothing to him, then, for that
she knew would be of no avail. But next morning, as he was rising,
she said to him earnestly and almost tearfully.
"Edward, let me beg of you to reflect before you go further in the
way you have entered. You may not be aware of it, but last night you
showed so plainly that you had been drinking that I was distressed
beyond measure. You know as well as I do, where this will end, if
continued. Stop, then, at once, while you have the power to stop. As
to preventing disease, it is plain that the use of brandy has not
done so in your case; but, rather, acted as a predisposing cause.
You were perfectly well before you touched it; you have not been
well since. Look at this fact, and, as a wise man, regard its
indications."
Truth was so strong in the words of his wife, that Mr. Hobart did
not attempt to gainsay them.
"I believe you are right," he replied with a good deal of depression
apparent in his manner. "I wish the doctor had kept his brandy
advice to himself. It has done me no good."
"It has done you harm," said his wife.
"Perhaps it has. Ah, me! I wish the cholera would subside."
"I think your fear is too great," returned Mrs. Hobart. "Go on in
your usual way; keep your mind calm; be as careful in regard to
diet, and you need fear no danger."
"I wish I'd let the brandy alone!" sighed Mr. Hobart, who felt as he
spoke, the desire for another draught.
"So do I. Doctor L--must have been mad when he advised it."
"So I now think. I heard yesterday of two or three members of our
Order who have been sick, and every one of them used a little brandy
as a preventive."
"It is bad--bad. Common sense teaches this. No great change of habit
is good in a tainted atmosphere. But you see this now, happily, and
all will yet be well I trust."
"Yes; I hope so. I shall touch no more of this brandy preventive. To
that my mind is fully made up."
Mrs. Hobart felt hopeful when she parted with her husband. But she
knew nothing of the real conflict going on in his mind between
reason and awakened appetite--else had she trembled and grown faint
in spirit. This conflict went on for some hours, when, alas!
appetite conquered.
At dinner time Mrs. Hobart saw at a glance how it was. The whole
manner of her husband had changed. His state of depression was gone,
and he exhibited an unnatural exhilaration of spirits. She needed
not the sickening odor of his breath to tell the fatal secret that
he had been unable to control himself.
It was worse at night. He came home so much beside himself that he
could with difficulty walk erectly. Half conscious of his condition,
he did not attempt to join the family, but went up stairs and groped
his way to bed. Mrs. Hobart did not follow him to his chamber.
Heartsick, she retired to another room, and there wept bitterly for
more than an hour. She was hopeless. Up from the melancholy past
arose images of degradation and suffering too dreadful to
contemplate. She felt that she had not strength to suffer again as
she had suffered through many, many years. From this state she was
aroused by groans from the room where her husband lay. Alarmed by
the sounds, she instantly went to him.
"What is the matter?" she asked, anxiously.
"Oh! oh! I am in so much pain!" was groaned half inarticulately.
"In pain, where?"
"Oh! oh!" was repeated, in a tone of suffering; and then he
commenced vomiting.
Mrs. Hobart placed her hand upon his forehead and found it cold and
clammy. Other and more painful symptoms followed. Before the doctor,
who was immediately summoned, arrived, his whole system had become
prostrate, and was fast sinking into a state of collapse. It was a
decided case of cholera.
"Has he been eating any thing improper?" asked Doctor L--, after
administering such remedies, and ordering such treatment as he
deemed the case required.
"Has he eaten no green fruit?"
"None."
"Nothing, to my knowledge, replied Mrs. Hobart. "We have been very
careful in regard to food."
"Nor unripe vegetables?"
Mrs. Hobart shook her head.
"Nor fish?"
"Nothing of the kind."
"That is strange. He was well a few days ago."
"Yes, perfectly, until he began to take a little brandy every day as
a preventive."
"Ah!" The doctor looked thoughtful. "But it couldn't have been that.
I take a little pure brandy every day, and find it good. I recommend
it to all my patients."
Mrs. Hobart sighed. Then she asked--"Do you think him dangerous?"
"I hope not. The attack is sudden and severe. But much worse cases
recover. I will call round again before bed time."
The doctor went away feeling far from comfortable. Only a few hours
before he, had left a man sick with cholera beyond recovery, who
had, to his certain knowledge, adopted the
brandy-drinking-preventive-system but a week before; and that at his
recommendation. And here was another case.
At eleven o'clock Dr. L--called to see Mr. Hobart again, and found
him rapidly sinking. Not a single symptom had been reached by his
treatment. The poor man was in great pain. Every muscle in his body
seemed affected by cramps and spasms. His mind, however, was
perfectly clear. As the doctor sat feeling his pulse, Hobart said to
him--
"Doctor L--, it is too late!"
"Oh, no. It is never too late," replied the doctor. "Don't think of
death; think of life, and that will help to sustain you. You are
not, by any means, at the last point. Hundreds, worse than you now
are, come safely through. I don't intend to let you slip through my
hands."
"Doctor," said the sick man, speaking in a solemn voice, "I feel
that I am beyond the reach of medicine. I shall die. What I now say
I do not mean as a reproach. I speak it only as a truth right for
you to know. Do you see my poor wife?"
The doctor turned his eyes upon Mrs. Hobart, who stood weeping by
the bedside.
"When she is left a widow, and my children orphans," continued the
patient, "remember that you have made them such!"
"Me! Why do you say that, Mr. Hobart?" The doctor looked startled.
"Because it is the truth. I was a well man, when you, as my medical
adviser, recommended me to drink brandy as a protection against
disease. I was in fear of the infection, and followed your
prescription. From the moment I took the first draught my body lost
its healthy equilibrium; and not only my body, but my mind. I was a
reformed man, and the taste inflamed the old appetite. From that
time until now I have not been really sober."
The doctor was distressed and confounded by this declaration. He had
feared that such was the case; but now it was charged unequivocally.
"I am pained at all this," he replied, "In sinning I sinned
ignorantly."
But, ere he could finish his reply, the sick man became suddenly
worse, and sunk into a state of insensibility.
"If it be in human power to save his life," murmured the doctor--"I
will save it."
Through the whole night he remained at the bed-side, giving, with
his own hands, all the remedies, and applying every curative means
within reach. But, when the day broke, there was little, if any
change for the better. He then went home, but returned in a couple
of hours.
"How is your husband?" he asked of the pale-faced wife as he
entered. She did not reply, and they went up to the chamber
together. A deep silence reigned in the room as they entered.
"Is he asleep?" whispered the doctor.
"See!" The wife threw back the sheet.
"O!" was the only sound that escaped the doctor's lips. It was a
prolonged sound, and uttered in a tone of exquisite distress. The
white and ghastly face of death was before him.
"It is your work!" murmured the unhappy woman, half beside herself
in her affliction.
"Madam! do not say that!" ejaculated the physician. "Do not say
that!"
"It is the truth! Did he not charge it upon you with his dying
breath?"
"I did all for the best, madam! all for the best! It was an error in
his case. But I meant him no harm."
"You put poison to his lips, and destroyed him. You have made his
wife a widow and his children orphans!"
"Madam!--"The doctor knit his brows and spoke in a stern voice. But,
ere he had uttered a word more, the stricken-hearted woman gave a
wild scream and fell upon the floor. Nature had been tried beyond
the point of endurance, and reason was saved at the expense of
physical prostration.
A few weeks later, and Doctor L--, in driving past the former
residence of Mr. Hobart, saw furniture cars at the door. The family
were removing. Death had taken the husband and father, and the poor
widow was going forth with her little ones from the old and pleasant
home, to gather them around her in a smaller and poorer place. His
feelings at the moment none need envy.
How many, like Mr. Hobart, have died through the insane prescription
of brandy as a preventive to cholera! and how many more have fallen
back into old habits, and become hopeless drunkards! Brandy is not
good for health at any time; how much less so, when the very air we
breathe is filled with a subtle poison, awaiting the least
disturbance in the human economy to affect it with disease.
THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.
"I WANT a quarter of a dollar, Jane."
This was addressed by a miserable creature, bloated and disfigured
by intemperance, to a woman, whose thin, pale face, and heart-broken
look, told but too plainly that she was the drunkard's wife.
"Not a quarter of a dollar, John? Surely you will not waste a
quarter of a dollar of my hard earnings, when you know that I can
scarcely get food and decent clothes for the children?"
As the wife said this, she looked up into her husband's face with a
sad appealing expression.
"I must have a quarter, Jane," said the man firmly.
"O, John! remember our little ones. The cold-weather will soon be
here, and I have not yet been able to get them shoes. If you will
not earn any thing yourself, do not waste the little my hard labor
can procure. Will not a sixpence do? Surely that is enough for you
to spend for--"
"Nothing will do but a quarter, Jane, and that I must have, if I
steal it!" was the prompt and somewhat earnest reply.
Mrs. Jarvis laid aside her work mechanically and, rising, went to a
drawer, and from a cup containing a single dollar in small pieces,
her little all, took out a quarter of a dollar, and turning to her
husband, said, as she handed it to him--
"Remember, that you are taking the bread out of your children's
mouths!"
"Not so bad as that, I hope, Jane," said the drunkard, as he
clutched the money eagerly; something like a feeble smile flitting
across his disfigured and distorted countenance.
"Yes, and worse!" was the response, made in a sadder tone than that
in which the wife had at first spoken.
"How worse, Jane?"
"John!" and the wife spoke with a sudden energy, while her
countenance lighted up with a strange gleam. "John, I cannot bear
this much longer! I feel myself sinking every day. And you--you who
pledged yourself--"
Here the voice of the poor woman gave way, and covering her face
with her hands, she bent her head upon her bosom, and sobbed and
wept hysterically.
The drunkard looked at her for a moment, and then turning hurriedly,
passed from the room. For some moments after the door had closed
upon her husband, did Mrs. Jarvis stand, sobbing and weeping. Then
slowly returning to her chair near the window, she resumed her,
work, with an expression of countenance that was sad and hopeless.
In the mean time, the poor wretch who had thus reduced his family to
a state of painful destitution, after turning away from his door,
walked slowly along the street with his head bowed down, as if
engaged in, to him, altogether a new employment, that of
self-communion. All at once a hand was laid familiarly upon his
shoulders, and a well-known voice said--
"Come, John, let's have a drink."
"Jarvis looked up with a bewildered air, and the first thing that
caught his eye, after it glanced away from the face of one of his
drinking cronies, was a sign with bright gold letters, bearing the
words, "EAGLE COFFEE-HOUSE." That sign was as familiar to him as the
face of one of his children. At the same moment that his eyes rested
upon this, creating an involuntary impulse to move towards the
tavern-door, his old crony caught hold of his coat-collar and gave
him a pull in the same direction. But much to the surprise of the
latter, Jarvis resisted this attempt to give his steps a direction
that would lead him into his old, accustomed haunt.
"Won't you drink this morning, Jarvis?" asked the other, with a look
of surprise.
There was evidently a powerful struggle going on in the mind of the
drunkard. This lasted only for a moment or two, when he said,
loudly, and emphatically--
"No!"
And instantly broke from his old boon companion, and hurried on his
way.
A loud laugh followed him, but he heeded it not. Ten minutes' walk
brought him to the store of a respectable tradesman.
"Is Mr. R--in?" he asked, as he entered.
"Back at the desk," was the answer of a clerk.
And Jarvis walked back with a resolute air.
"Mr. R--, I want to sign the pledge!"
"You, Jarvis?" Mr. R--said, in tones of gratified surprise.
"Yes, me, Mr. R--. It's almost a hopeless case; but here goes to
do my best."
"Are you fully sensible of what you are about doing, Jarvis?"
"I think I am, Mr. R--. I've drunk nothing since yesterday
morning, and with the help of Him above, I am determined never to
drink another drop as long as I live! So read me the pledge and let
me sign it."
Mr. R--turned at once to the constitution of the Washington
Temperance Society, and read the pledge thereunto annexed:
"'We, the undersigned, do pledge ourselves to each other, as
gentlemen, that we will not, hereafter, drink any spiritous liquors,
wine, malt, or cider, unless in sickness, and under the prescription
of a physician.'"
Jarvis took the pen in his hand, that trembled so he. could scarcely
make a straight mark on paper, and enrolled his name among the
hundreds of those, who, like him, had resolved to be men once more.
This done, he laid down the quarter of a dollar which he had
obtained from his wife, the admission fee required of all who joined
the society. As he turned from the tradesman's store, his step was
firmer and his head more erect, than, in a sober state, he had
carried it for many a day.
From thence he proceeded to a hatter's-shop.
"Well, Jarvis," was uttered in rather a cool, repulsive tone, as he
entered.
"Are you not in want of a journeyman, Mr. Warren?"
"I don't want you, Jarvis."
"If you will give me work, I'll never get drunk again, Mr. Warren."
"You've said that too many times, Jarvis. The last time you went off
when I was hurried with work, and caused me to disappoint a
customer, I determined never to have any thing more to do with you."
"But I'll never disappoint you again," urged the poor man earnestly.
"It's no use for you to talk to me, Jarvis. You and I are done with
each other. I have made up my mind never again to have a man in my
shop who drinks rum."
"But I've joined the temperance society, Mr. Warren."
"I don't care if you have: in two weeks you'll be lying in the
gutter."
"I'll never drink liquor again if I die!" said Jarvis, solemnly.
"Look here, you drunken vagabond!" returned the master hatter in
angry tones, coming from behind the counter, and standing in front
of the individual he was addressing--"if you are not out of this
shop in two minutes by the watch, I'll kick you into the street! So
there now--take your choice to go out, or be kicked out."
Jarvis turned sadly away without a reply, and passed out of the door
through which he had entered with a heart full of hope, now pained,
and almost ready to recede from his earnest resolution and pledge to
become a sober man and a better husband and father. He felt utterly
discouraged. As he walked slowly along the street, the fumes of a
coffee-house which he was passing, unconsciously, struck upon his
sense, and immediately came an almost overpowering desire for his
accustomed potation. He paused--
"Now that I try to reform, they turn against me," he sighed
bitterly. "It is no use; I am gone past hope!"
One step was taken towards the tavern-door, when it seemed as if a
strong hand held him back.
"No--no!" he murmured, "I have taken the pledge, and I will stand by
it, if I die!" Then moving resolutely onward, he soon found himself
near the door of another hatter's-shop. Hope again kindled up in his
bosom, and he entered.
"Don't you want a hand, Mr. Mason?" he asked, in a hesitating tone.
"Not a drunken one, Jarvis," was the repulsive answer.
"But I've reformed, Mr. Mason."
"So I should think from your looks."
"But, indeed, Mr. Mason I have quit drinking, and taken the pledge."
"To break it in three days. Perhaps three hours."
"Won't you give me work, Mr. Mason, if I promise to be sober?"
"No! For I would not give a copper for your promises."
Poor Jarvis, turned away. When he had placed his hand to the pledge,
he dreamed not of these repulses and difficulties. He was a good
workman, and he thought that any one of his old employers would be
glad to get him back again, so soon as they learned of his having
signed the total-abstinence pledge. But he had so often promised
amendment, and so often broken his promise and disappointed them,
that they had lost all confidence in him; at least, the two to whom
he had, thus far, made application.
After leaving the shop of Mr. Mason, Jarvis seemed altogether
irresolute. He would walk on a few steps, and then pause to commune
with his troubled and bewildered thoughts.
"I will try Lankford," said he, at length, half-aloud; "he will give
me work, surely."
A brisk walk of some ten minutes brought him to the door of a small
hatter's-shop in a retired street. Behind the counter of this shop
stood an old man, busily employed in ironing a hat. There was
something benevolent in his countenance and manner. As Jarvis
entered, he looked up, and a shade passed quickly over his face.
"Good morning, Mr. Lankford," said Jarvis, bowing, with something
like timidity and shame in his manner.
"Are you not afraid to come here, John?" replied the old man,
sternly.
"I am ashamed to come, but not afraid. You will not harm me, I
know."
"Don't trust to that, John. Did you not steal, ay, that is the
word--did you not steal from me the last time I employed you?" The
old man was stern and energetic in his manner.
"I was so wicked as to take a couple of skins, Mr. Lankford, but I
did very wrong, and am willing to repay you for them, if you will
give me work. I was in liquor when I did it, and, when in liquor, I
have no distinct consciousness of the evil of any action."
"Give you work, indeed! O, no! John; I cannot give you another
chance to rob me."
"But I will not get drunk any more. And you know, Mr. Lankford, that
while I was a sober man, and worked for you, I never wronged you out
of a sixpence worth."
"Won't get drunk any more! Ah! John, I have lived too long in. the
world, and have seen too much, to heed such promises."
"But I am in earnest, Mr. Lankford. I signed the pledge this
morning."
"You!" in a tone of surprise.
"Yes, _I_ signed it."
"Ah, John," after a pause, and shaking his head. incredulously, "I
cannot credit your word, and I am sorry for it."
"If I have signed the pledge, and if I am really determined to be a
reformed man, will you give me work, Mr. Lankford!"
The old man thought for a few moments, and then said,
half-sorrowfully--
"I am afraid of you, John. You are such an old offender on the score
of drunkenness, that I have no confidence in your power to keep the
pledge."
"Then what _shall_ I do!" the poor wretch exclaimed, in tones that
made the heart of the old man thrill--for nature and pathos were in
them. "Now that I am trying in earnest to do better, no one will
give me a word of encouragement, nor a helping hand. Heaven help
me!--for I am forsaken of man."
Mr. Lankford stood thoughtful and irresolute for some moments. At
length, he said--
"John, if you will bring me a certificate from Mr. R--, that you
have signed the total-abstinence pledge, I will give you another
trial. But if you disappoint me again, you and I are done for ever."
The countenance of Jarvis brightened up instantly. He turned quickly
away, without reply, and hurried off to the store of Mr. R--, the
secretary of the society he had joined. The certificate was, of
course, obtained.
"And you have joined, sure enough, John," Mr. Lankford said, in a
changed tone, as he glanced over the certificate.
"Indeed I have, Mr. Lankford."
"And you seem in earnest."
"If I was ever in earnest about any thing in my life, I am in
earnest now."
"Keep to your pledge, then, John, and all will be well. While you
were a sober man, I preferred you to any journeyman in my shop. Keep
sober, and you shall never want a day's work while I am in
business."
The poor man was now shown his place in the shop, and once again he
resumed his work, though under a far different impulse than had, for
years, nerved him to action.
Two hours brought his regular dinner-time, when Jarvis, who began to
feel the want of food, returned home, with new and strange feelings
about his heart. One impulse was to tell his wife what he had done,
and what he was doing. But then he remembered how often he had
mocked her new springing hopes--how often he had promised amendment,
and once even joined a temperance society, only to relapse into a
lower and more degraded condition.
"No, no," he said to himself, after debating the question in his
mind, as he walked towards home; "I will not tell her now. I will
first present some fruit of my repentance. I will give such an
assurance as will create confidence and hope."
Mrs. Jarvis did not raise her eyes to the face of her husband, as he
entered. The sight of that once loved countenance, distorted and
disfigured, ever made her heart sick when she looked upon it. Jarvis
seated himself quietly in a chair, and held out his hands for his
youngest child, not over two years old, who had no consciousness of
his father's degradation. In a moment the happy little creature was
on his knee. But the other children showed no inclination to
approach.
The frugal meal passed in silence and restraint. Mrs. Jarvis felt
troubled and oppressed--for the prospect before her seemed to grow
more and more gloomy. All the morning she had suffered from a steady
pain in her breast, and from a lassitude that she could not
overcome. Her pale, thin, care-worn face, told a sad tale of
suffering, privation, confinement, and want of exercise. What was to
become of her children she knew not. Under such feelings of
hopelessness, to have one sitting by her side, who could take much
of her burdens from her, were he but to will it--who could call back
the light to her heart, if only true to his promise, made in earlier
and happier years--soured in some degree her feelings, and obscured
her perceptions. She did not note that some change had passed upon
him; a change that if marked, would have caused her heart to leap in
her bosom.
As soon as Jarvis had risen from the table, he took his hat, and
kissing his youngest child, the only one there who seemed to regard
him, passed quickly from the house. As the door closed after him,
his wife heaved a long sigh, and then rising, mechanically,
proceeded to clear up the table. Of how many crushed affections and
disappointed hopes, did that one deep, tremulous sigh, speak!
Jarvis returned to his work, and applied himself steadily during the
whole afternoon. Whenever a desire for liquor returned upon him, he
quenched it in a copious draught of water, and thus kept himself as
free from temptation as possible. At night he returned, when the
same troubled and uneasy silence pervaded the little family at the
supper-table. The meal was scanty, for Mrs. Jarvis's incessant labor
could procure but a poor supply of food. After the children had been
put to bed, Mrs. Jarvis sat down, as usual, to spend the evening,
tired as she was, and much as her breast pained her, in sewing. A
deep sigh heaved involuntarily her bosom as she did so. It caught
the ear of her husband, and smote upon his heart. He knew that her
health was feeble, and that constant labor fatigued her excessively.
"I wouldn't sew to-night, Jane," he said. "You look tired. Rest for
one evening."
Mrs Jarvis neither looked up nor replied. There was something in the
tone of her husband's voice that stirred her feelings;--something
that softened her heart towards him. But she dared not trust herself
to speak, nor to let her eye meet his. She did not wish to utter a
harsh nor repulsive word, nor was she willing to speak kindly to
him, for she did not feel kindly,--and kind words and affected
cheerfulness, she had already found but encouraged him in his evil
ways. And so she continued to ply her needle, without appearing to
regard his presence. Her husband did not make another effort to
induce her to suspend her labors; for, under existing circumstances,
he was particularly desirous of not provoking her to use towards him
the language of rebuke and censure. After sitting silent, for,
perhaps half an hour, he rose from his chair, and walked three or
four times backwards and forwards across the room, preparatory to
going out to seek a coffee-house, and there spend his evening, as
his wife supposed. But much to her surprise, he retired to their
chamber, in the adjoining room. While still under the expectation of
seeing him return, his loud breathing caught her quick ear. He was
asleep!
Catching up the light, as she arose suddenly to her feet, she
passed, with a hasty step, into the chamber. He had undressed
himself, was in bed, and sound asleep. She held the candle close to
his face; it was calmer than usual, and somewhat paler. As she bent
over him, his breath came full in her face. It was not loaded with
the disgusting fumes that had so often sickened her. Her heart beat
quicker--the moisture dimmed her eye--her whole frame trembled. Then
looking upwards, she uttered a single prayer for her husband, and,
gliding quietly from the room, sat down by her little table and
again bent over her work. Now she remembered that he had said, with
something unusual in his tones--"I would not sew to-night, Jane; you
look tired; rest for one evening"--and her heart was agitated with a
new hope; but that hope, like the dove from the ark, found nothing
upon which to rest, and trembled back again into a feeling of
despondency.
On the next morning, the unsteady hand of Jarvis, as he lifted his
saucer to his lips at the breakfast-table, made his wife's heart
sink again in her bosom. She had felt a hope, almost unconsciously.
She remembered that at supper-time his hand was firm--now it was
unnerved. This was conclusive to her mind, that, notwithstanding his
appearance, he had been drinking. But few words passed during the
meal, for neither felt much inclined to converse.
After breakfast, Jarvis returned to the shop and worked steadily
until dinner-time, and then again until evening. As on the night
before, he did not go out, but retired early to bed. And this was
continued all the week. But the whole was a mystery to his poor
wife, who dared not even to hope for any real change for the better.
On Saturday, towards night, he laid by his work, put on his coat and
hat, and went into the front shop.
"So you have really worked a week, a sober man, John?" Mr. Lankford
said.
"Indeed, I have. Since last Sunday morning, no kind of intoxicating
liquor has passed my lips."
"How much have you earned this week, John?"
"Here is the foreman's account of my work, sir. It comes to twelve
dollars."
"Still a fast workman. You will yet recover yourself, and your
family will again be happy, if you persevere."
"O, sir, they shall be happy! I _will_ persevere!"
Another pause ensued, and then Jarvis said, while the color mounted
to his cheek--
"If you are willing, Mr. Lankford, I should like you to deduct only
one-half of what I owe you for those furs I took from you, from this
week's wages. My family are in want of a good many things; and I am
particularly desirous of buying a barrel of flour to-night."
"Say nothing of that, John. Let it be forgotten with your past
misdeeds. Here are your wages--twelve dollars--and if it gives you
as much pleasure to receive, as it does me to pay them, then you
feel no ordinary degree of satisfaction."
Mr. Jarvis received the large sum for him to possess, and hurried
away to a grocery. Here he bought, for six dollars, a barrel of
flour, and expended two dollars more of his wages in sugar, coffee,
tea, molasses, &c. Near to the store was the market-house. Thence he
repaired, and bought meat and various kinds of vegetables, with
butter, &c. These he carried to the store, and gave directions to
have all sent home to him. He had now two dollars left out of the
twelve he had earned since Monday morning, and with these in his
pocket, he returned home. As he drew near the house, his heart
fluttered in anticipation of the delightful change that would pass
upon all beneath its humble roof. He had never in his life,
experienced feelings of such real joy.
A few moments brought him to the door, and he went in with the quick
step that had marked his entrance for several days. It was not quite
dark, and his wife sat sewing by the window. She was finishing a
pair of pantaloons that had to go home that very evening, and with
the money she was to get for them she expected to buy the Sunday
dinner. There was barely enough food in the house for supper; and
unless she received her pay for this piece of work, she had no means
of getting the required sustenance for herself and children--or
rather, for her husband, herself and children. The individual for
whom it was intended was not a prompt pay-master, and usually
grumbled whenever Mrs. Jarvis asked him for money. To add to the
circumstances of concern and trouble of mind, she felt almost ready
to give up, from the excessive pain in her breast, and the weakness
of her whole frame. As her husband came in, she turned upon him an
anxious and troubled countenance; and then bent down over her work
and plied her needle hurriedly. As the twilight fell dimly around,
she drew nearer and nearer to the window, and at last stood up, and
leaned close up to the panes of glass, so that her hand almost
touched them, in order to catch the few feeble rays of light that
were still visible. But she could not finish the garment upon which
she wrought, by the light of day. A candle was now lit, and she took
her place by the table, not so much as glancing towards her husband,
who had seated himself in a chair, with his youngest child on his
knee. Half an hour passed in silence, and then Mrs. Jarvis rose up,
having taken the last stitch in the garment she was making, and
passed into the adjoining chamber. In a few minutes she came out,
with her bonnet and shawl on, and the pair of pantaloons that she
had just finished on her arm.
"Where are you going, Jane?" her husband asked, in a tone of
surprise, that seemed mingled with disappointment.
"I am going to carry home my work."
"But I wouldn't go now, Jane. Wait until after supper."
"No, John. I cannot wait until after supper. The work will be
wanted. It should have been home two hours ago."
And she glided from the room.
A walk of a few minutes brought her to the door of a tailor's-shop,
around the front of which hung sundry garments exposed for sale.
This shop she entered, and presented the pair of pantaloons to a man
who stood behind the counter. His face relaxed not a muscle as he
took them and made a careful examination of the work.
"They'll do," he at length said, tossing them aside, and resuming
his employment of cutting out a garment.
Poor Mrs. Jarvis paused, dreading to utter her request. But
necessity conquered the painful reluctance, and she said--
"Can you pay me for this pair to-night, Mr. Willets?"
"No. I've got more money to pay on Monday than I know where to get,
and cannot let a cent go out."
"But, Mr. Willets, I--"
"I don't want to hear any of your reasons, Mrs. Jarvis. You can't
have the money to-night."
Mrs. Jarvis moved slowly away, and had nearly reached the door, when
a thought of her children caused her to pause.
"I cannot go, Mr. Willets, without the money," she said, suddenly
turning, and speaking in an excited tone.
"You _will_ go, I'm thinking, madam," was the cool reply.
"O, sir," changing her tone, "pay me what you owe me; I want it very
much."
"O, yes. So you all say. But I am used to such make-believes. You
get no money out of me to-night, madam. That's a settled point. I'm
angry now--so you had better go home at once; if you don't, I'll
never give you a stitch of work, so help--"
Mrs. Jarvis did not pause to hear the concluding words of the
sentence.
"What _shall_ I do?" was the almost despairing question that she
asked of herself, as she hurried towards her home. On entering the
house she made no remark, for there was no one to whom she could
tell her troubles and disappointment, with even the most feeble hope
of a word of comfort.
"Does Mr. Jarvis live here?" asked a rough voice at the door.
"Yes, sir," was the reply.
"Well, here is a barrel of flour and some groceries for him."
"There must be some mistake, sir."
"Is not this Mr. Jarvis's?"
"Yes."
"And number 40?"
"Yes."
"Then this is the place, for that was the direction given me."
"Yes, this is the place--bring them in," spoke up Jarvis, in an
animated tone.
The drayman, of course, obeyed. First he rolled in the barrel of
flour; then came a number of packages, evidently containing
groceries; and, finally, one or two pieces of meat, and sundry lots
of vegetables.
"How much is to pay?" asked Jarvis.
"Twenty-five cents, sir," responded the drayman, bowing.
The twenty-five cent piece was taken from his pocket with quite an
air, and handed over. Then the drayman went out and that little
family were alone again. During the passage of the scene just
described, the wife stood looking on with a stupid and bewildered
air. When the drayman had departed, she turned to her husband, and
said--
"'John, where did these things come from?"
"I bought them, Jane."
"You bought them?"
"Yes, I bought them."
"And pray, John, what did you buy them with?"
"With the quarter of a dollar you gave me on Monday."
"John!"
"It is true, Jane. With that quarter I went and joined the
Washington Total-Abstinence Society, and then went to work at Mr.
Lankford's. Here is the result of one week's work, besides this
silver," handing her all that remained, after making the purchases.
"O, John, John," the wife exclaimed, bursting into tears, "do not
again mock my hopes. I cannot bear much more."
"In the strength of Him, Jane, who has promised to help us when we
call upon Him, 'I will not disappoint the hopes I now revive,'" said
Jarvis, slowly and solemnly.
The almost heart-broken wife and mother leaned her head upon the
shoulder of her husband, and clung to his side with a newly-revived
confidence, that she felt would not be disappointed, while the tears
poured from her eyes like rain. But her true feelings we cannot
attempt to describe--nor dare we venture to sketch further the scene
we have introduced. The reader's imagination can do it more justice,
and to him we leave that pleasing task, with only the remark, that
Mrs. Jarvis's newly-awakened joys and hopes have not again been
disappointed.
TIME, FAITH, ENERGY.
"I DON'T see that I am so much better off," said Mr. Gordon, a man
who had recently given up drinking. "I lost my situation on the very
day I signed the pledge, and have had no regular employment since."
"But you would have lost your situation if you hadn't signed the
pledge, I presume," said the individual to whom he was complaining.
"Yes. I lost it because I got drunk and spoiled my job. But to hear
some temperance people talk, one who didn't know would be led to
believe that, the very moment the pledge was signed, gold could be
picked up in the streets. I must confess that I haven't found it so.
Money is scarcer with me than it ever was; and though I don't spend
a cent for myself, my family haven't a single comfort more than they
had before."
"Though there's no disputing the fact that they would have many less
comforts if you hadn't signed the pledge?"
"No, I suppose not. But I cannot help feeling discouraged at the way
things go. If I had the same wages I received before I signed the
pledge, I could be laying up money. But, as it is, it requires the
utmost economy to keep from getting in debt."
"Still, you do manage to keep even?"
"Yes."
"On about half your former income?"
"A little over half. I used to get ten dollars a week. Now I manage,
by picking up odd jobs here and there, to make about six."
"Then you are better off than you were before."
"I hardly see how you can make that out."
"Your family have enough to live upon--all they had before--and you
have a healthier body, a calmer mind, and a clearer conscience.
Isn't here something gained?"
"I rather think there is," replied Gordon, smiling.
"And I rather think you are a good deal better off than you were
before. Isn't your wife happier?"
"O! yes. She's as cheerful as a lark all the day."
"And doesn't murmur because of your light wages?"
"No, indeed! not she. I believe if I didn't earn more than three
dollars a week, and kept sober, she would make it do, somehow or
other, and keep a good heart. It's wonderful how much she is
changed!"
"And yet you are no better off? Ain't you better off in having a
happy wife and a pleasant home, what I am sure you hadn't before?"
"You are right in that. I certainly had neither of them before. Oh!
yes. I am much better off all around. I only felt a little
despondent, because I can't get regular employment as I used to, and
good wages; for now, if I had these, I could do so well."
"Be patient, friend Gordon; time will make all right. There are
three words that every reformed man should write on the walls of his
chamber, that he may see them every morning. They are 'Time, Faith,
Energy.' No matter how low he may have fallen; no matter how
discouraging all things around him may appear; let him have energy,
and faith in time, and all will come out well at last."
Gordon went home, feeling in better heart than when he met the
temperance friend who had spoken to him these encouraging words.
Henry Gordon, when he married, had just commenced business for
himself, and went on for several years doing very well. He laid by
enough money to purchase himself a snug little house, and was in a
good way for accumulating a comfortable property, when the habit of
dram-drinking, which he had indulged for years, became an
over-mastering passion. From that period he neglected his business,
which steadily declined. In half the time it took to accumulate the
property he possessed, all disappeared--his business was broken up,
and he compelled to work at his trade as a journeyman to support his
family. From a third to a half of the sum he earned weekly, he spent
in gratifying the debasing appetite that had almost beggared his
family and reduced him to a state of degradation little above that
of the brute. The balance was given to his sad-hearted wife, to get
food for the hungry, half-clothed children.
Nor was this all. Debts were contracted which Gordon was unable to
pay. One or two of his creditors, more exacting than the rest,
seized upon his furniture and sold it to satisfy their claims,
leaving to the distressed family only the few articles exempt by
law.
Things had reached this low condition, when Gordon came home from
the shop, one day, some hours earlier than usual. Surprised at
seeing him, his wife said--
"What's the matter, Henry? Are you sick?"
"No!" he replied, sullenly, "I'm discharged."
"Discharged! For what, Henry?"
"For spoiling a job."
"How did that happen?" Mrs. Gordon spoke kindly, although she felt
anxious and distressed.
"How has all my trouble happened?" asked Gordon, with unusual
bitterness of tone. "I took a glass too much, and--and--"
"It made you spoil your job," said his wife, her voice still kind.
"Yes. Curse the day I ever saw a drop of liquor! It has been the
cause of all my misfortunes."
"Why not abandon its use at once and for ever, Henry?"
"That is not so easily done."
"Hundreds have done it, and are doing it daily, and so may you. Only
make the resolution, Henry. Only determine to break these fetters,
and you are free. Let the time past, wherein you have wrought folly,
and your family suffered more than words can express, suffice. Only
will it, and there will be a bright future for all of us."
Tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Gordon while she made this appeal,
although she strove hard to appear calm. Her husband felt a better
spirit awaking within him. There was a brief struggle between
appetite and the good resolution that was forming in his mind, and
then the latter conquered.
"I will be free!" he said, turning towards the door through which he
had a little while before entered, and hurriedly leaving the house.
The hour that passed from the time her husband went out until he
returned, was one of most anxious suspense to Mrs. Gordon. Her hand
trembled so that she could not hold her needle, and was obliged to
lay aside the sewing upon which she was engaged, and go about some
household employments.
"Mary, I have signed the pledge, if that will do any good," said
Gordon, opening the door and coming in upon his wife with his pledge
in his hand. "There," and he unrolled the paper and pointed to his
name; "there is my signature, and here is the document."
He did not speak very cheerfully; but his wife's face was lit up
with a sudden brightness, followed by a gush of tears.
"Do any good!" she replied, leaning her head upon his shoulder, and
grasping one of his hands tightly in both of hers. "It will do all
good!"
"But I have no work, Mary. I was discharged to-day, and it is the
only shop in town. What are we to do?"
"Mr. Evenly will take you back, now that you have signed the
pledge."
"Perhaps he will!" Gordon spoke more cheerfully. "I will go and see
him to-morrow."
Mrs. Gordon prepared her husband a strong cup of coffee, and baked
some nice hot cakes for his supper. She combed her hair, and made
herself as tidy as possible. The children, too, were much improved
in their looks by a little attention, which their mother felt
encouraged to give. There was an air of comfort about the
ill-furnished dwelling of Henry Gordon that it had not known for a
long time, and he felt it.
On the next morning, after breakfast, Gordon went back to the shop
from which he had been discharged only the day previous. Evenly, the
owner of it, was a rough, unfeeling man, and had kept Gordon on,
month after month, because he could not well do without him. But, on
the very day he discharged him, a man from another town had applied
for work, and the spoiled job was made an excuse for discharging a
journeyman, whose habits of intoxication had always been offensive
to the master-workman.
When Gordon entered the shop for the purpose of asking to be taken
back, he met Evenly near the door, who said to him, in a rough
manner--
"And what do you want, pray?"
"I want you to take me back again," replied Gordon. "I have signed
the pledge, and intend leading a sober life hereafter."
"The devil you have!"
"Yes sir. I signed it yesterday, after you discharged me."
"How long do you expect to keep it?" asked Evenly, with a sneer.
"Long enough to reach the next grogshop?"
"I have taken the pledge for life, I trust," returned the workman,
seriously. He was hurt at the contemptuous manner of his old
employer, but his dependent condition made him conceal his feelings.
"You will have no more trouble with me."
"No, I am aware of that. I will have no more trouble with you, for I
never intend to let you come ten feet inside the front door of my
shop."
"But I have reformed my bad habit, Mr. Evenly. I will give you no
more trouble with my drinking," said the poor man, alarmed at this
language.
"It's no use for you to talk to me, Gordon," replied Evenly, in a
rough manner. "I've long wanted to get rid of you, and I have
finally succeeded. Your place is filled. So there is no more to say
on that subject. Good morning."
And the man turned on his heel and left Gordon standing half
stupified at what he had heard.
"Rum's done the business for you at last, my lark! I told you it
would come to this!" said an old fellow workman, who heard what
passed between Gordon and the employer. He spoke in a light,
insulting voice.
Without replying, the unhappy man left the shop, feeling more
wretched than he had ever felt in his life.
"And thus I am met at my first effort to reform!" he murmured,
bitterly.
"Hallo, Gordon! Where are you going?" cried a voice as these words
fell from his lips.
He looked up and found himself opposite to the door of one of his
old haunts. It was the keeper of it who had called him.
"Come! Walk in and let us see your pleasant face this morning. Where
were you last night? My company all complained about your absence.
We were as dull as a funeral."
"Curse you and your company too!" ejaculated Gordon between his
teeth, and moved on, letting his eyes fall again to the pavement.
"Hey-day! What's the matter?"
But Gordon did not stop to bandy words with one of the men who had
helped to ruin him.
"It's all over with us, Mary. Evenly's got a man in my place," said
Gordon, as he entered his house and threw himself despairingly into
a chair. "But won't he give you work, too?" asked Mrs. Gordon, in a
husky voice.
"No! He insulted me, and said I should never come ten feet inside of
his shop."
"Did you tell him that you had signed the pledge?"
"Yes. But it was no use. He did not seem to care for me any more
than he did for a dog."
The poor man's distress was so great that he covered his face with
his hands, and sat swinging his body to and fro, and uttering
half-suppressed moans.
"What are we to do, Mary? There is no other shop in town," he said,
looking up, after growing a little calm. "Doesn't it seem hard, just
as I am trying to do right?"
"Don't despair, Henry. Let us trust in Providence. It is only a dark
moment; yet, dark as it is, it is brighter to me than any period has
been for years. A clear head and ready hands will not go long
unemployed. I do not despond, dear husband, neither should you. Keep
fast anchored to your pledge, and we will outride the storm."
"But we shall starve, Mary. We cannot live upon air."
"No," replied Mrs. Gordon; "but we can live upon half what you have
been earning at your trade, and quite as comfortably as we have been
living. And it will be an extreme case, I think, if you can't get
employment at five dollars a week, doing something or other. Don't
you?"
"It appears so. Certainly I ought to be able to earn five dollars a
week, if it is at sawing wood. I'll do that--I'll do any thing."
"Then we needn't be alarmed. I'll try and get some sewing at any
rate, to help out. So brighten up, Henry. All will be well. It will
take a little time to get things going right again; but time and
industry will do all for us that we could ask."
Thus encouraged, Gordon started out to see if he could find
something to do. It was a new thing for him to go in search of work;
and rather hard, he felt, to be obliged almost to beg for it. Where
to go, or to whom to apply, he did not know. After wandering about
for several hours, and making several applications at out of the way
places with no success, he turned his steps homeward, feeling
utterly cast down. In this state, he was assailed by the temptation
to drown all his trouble in the cup of confusion, and nearly drawn
aside; but a thought of his wife, and the bright hope that had
sprung up in her heart in the midst of darkness, held him back.
"It's no use to try, Mary," he said, despondingly, as he entered his
poorly-furnished abode, and found his wife busy with her needle. "I
can't get any work."
"I have been more successful than you have, Henry," Mrs. Gordon
returned, speaking cheerfully. "I went to see if Mrs. Hewitt hadn't
some sewing to give out, and she gave me a dozen shirts to make. So
don't be discouraged. You can afford to wait for work even for two
or three weeks, if it doesn't come sooner. Let us be thankful for
what we have to-day, and trust in God for to-morrow. Depend upon it,
we shall not want. Providence never forsakes the man who is trying
to do right."
Thus Mrs. Gordon strove to keep up the spirits of her husband. After
dinner, he went out again and called to see a well-known temperance
man. After relating to him what he had done, and how unhappily he
was situated in regard to work, the man said--
"It won't do to be idle, Gordon; that's clear. An idle man is
tempted ten times to another's once. You will never be able to keep
the pledge unless you get something to do. We must assist you in
this matter. What can you do besides your trade?"
"I have little skill beyond my regular calling; but then, I have
health, strength, and willingness; and I think these might be made
useful in something."
"So do I. Now to start with, I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will
come and open my store for me every morning, make the fire and sweep
out, and come and stay an hour for me every day while I go to
dinner, I will give you three dollars a week. Two hours a day is all
your time I shall want."
"Thank you from my heart! Of course I accept your offer. So far so
good," said Gordon, brightening up.
"Very well. You may begin with to-morrow morning. No doubt you can
make an equal sum by acting as a light porter for the various stores
about. I can throw a little in your way; and I will speak to my
neighbors to do the same." There was not a happier home in the whole
town than was the home of Henry Gordon that night, poor as it was.
"I knew it would all come out right," said Mrs. Gordon. "I knew a
better day was coming. We can live quite comfortably upon five or
six dollars a week, and be happier than we have been for years."
When Gordon thought of the past, he did not wonder that tears fell
over the face of his wife, even while her lips and eyes were bright
with smiles. As the friend had supposed, Gordon was employed to do
many errands by the storekeepers in the neighborhood. Some weeks he
made five dollars and sometimes six or seven. This went on for a few
months, when he began to feel discouraged. The recollection of other
and brighter days returned frequently to his mind, and he began
ardently to desire an improved external condition, as well for his
wife and children as for himself. He wished to restore what had been
lost; but saw no immediate prospect of being able to do so. Six
dollars a week was the average of his earnings, and it took all
this, besides what little his wife earned, to make things tolerably
comfortable at home.
Gordon was in a more desponding mood than usual, when he indulged in
the complaint with which our story opens. What was said to him
changed the tone of his feelings, and inspired him with a spirit of
cheerfulness and hope.
"Time, Faith, Energy!" he said to himself, as he walked with a more
elastic step. "Yes, these must bring out all right in the end. I
will not be so weak as to despond. All is much improved as it is. We
are happier and better. Time, Faith, Energy! I will trust in these."
When Gordon opened the door of his humble abode, he found a lad
waiting to see him, who arose, and presenting a small piece of
paper, said--
"Mr. Blake wishes to know when you can settle this?"
Mr. Blake was a grocer, to whom ten dollars had been owing for a
year. He had dunned the poor drunkard for the money until he got
tired of so profitless a business, and gave up the account for lost.
By some means, it had recently come to his ears that Gordon had
signed the pledge.
"Some chance for me yet," he said, and immediately had the bill made
out anew, and sent in; not thinking or caring whether it might not
be premature for him to do so, and have the effect to discourage the
poor man and drive him back to his old habits. What he wanted was
his money. It was his due; and he meant to have it if he could get
it.
"Tell Mr. Blake that I will pay him as soon as possible. At present
it is out of my power," said Gordon, in answer to the demand.
The lad, in the spirit of his master, turned away with a sulky air,
and left the house.
Poor Gordon's feelings went down to zero in a moment.
"It's hopeless, Mary! I see it all as plain as day," he said. "The
moment I get upon my feet, there will be a dozen to knock me down.
While I was a drunkard, no one thought of dunning me for money; but
now that I am trying to do right, every one to whom I am indebted a
dollar will come pouncing down upon me."
"It's a just debt, Henry, you know, and we ought to pay it."
"I don't dispute that. But we can't pay it now."
"Then Blake can't get it now; so there the matter will have to rest.
A little dunning won't kill us. We have had harder trials than that
to bear. So don't get discouraged so easily."
The words "Time, Faith, Energy!" came into the mind of Gordon and
rebuked him.
"There is sense in what you say, Mary," he replied. "I know I am too
easily discouraged. We owe Blake, that is clear; and I suppose he is
right in trying to get his money. We can't pay him now; and
therefore he can't get it now, do what he will. So we will be no
worse for his dunning, if he duns every day. But I hate so to be
asked for money."
"I'll tell you what might be done," said Mrs. Gordon.
"Well?" inquired the husband.
"Mr. Blake has a large family, and no doubt his wife gives out a
good deal of sewing. I could work it out."
Gordon thought a few moments, and then said--
"Or, better than that; perhaps Blake would let me work it out in his
store. I have a good deal of time on my hands unemployed."
"Yes, that would be better," replied Mrs. Gordon; "for I have as
much sewing as I can do, and get paid for it all."
This thought brightened the spirits of Gordon. As soon as he had
eaten his dinner he started for the store of Mr. Blake.
"I've come to talk to you about that bill of mine," said Mr. Gordon.
"Well, what of it?" returned the grocer. "I wish to pay it, but have
not the present ability. I lost my situation on the very day I
signed the pledge, and have had no regular employment since. So far,
I have only been able to pick up five or six dollars a week, and it
takes all that to live upon. But I have time to spare, Mr. Blake, if
I have no money; and if I can pay you in labor, I will be glad to do
so."
"I don't know that I could ask more than that," replied the grocer.
"If I did, I would be unreasonable. Let me see: I reckon I could
find a day's work for you about the store at least once a week, for
which I would allow you a credit of one dollar and a quarter. How
would that do?"
"It would be exactly what I would like. I can spare you a day
easily. And it is much better to work out an old debt than to be
idle."
"Very well, Gordon. Come to-morrow and work for me, and I will pass
a dollar and a quarter to your account. I like this. It shows you
are an honest man. Never fear but what you'll get along."
The approving words of the grocer encouraged Gordon very much. On
the next day he went as he had agreed and worked for Mr. Blake. When
he was about leaving the store at night, Blake called to him and
said--
"Here, Gordon; stop a moment. I want you to put up a pound of this
white crushed sugar; and a quarter of young hyson tea."
Gordon did as he was directed. Blake took the two packages from the
counter, and handing them to Gordon, said--
"Take them to your wife with my compliments, and tell her that I
wish her joy of an honest husband."
Gordon took the unexpected favor, and without speaking, turned
hastily from the grocer and walked away.
"Behind _that_ frowning Providence
He hid a smiling face,"
said Mrs. Gordon, with tearful eyes, when her husband presented her
the sugar and tea, and repeated what the grocer had said.
"Yes. It was a blessing sent to us in disguise," returned Gordon.
"How little do we know of the good or ill that lies in our immediate
future!"
"Do not say ill, dear husband--only seeming ill; if we think right
and do right. When God makes our future, all is good; the ill is of
our own procuring."
"Right, Mary. I see that truth as clear as if a sunbeam shone upon
it."
"Time, Faith, Energy!" murmured Gordon to himself, as he lay awake
that night, thinking of the future. Before losing himself in sleep,
he had made up his mind to go to another creditor for a small
amount, and see if he could not make a similar arrangement with him
to the one entered into with the grocer. The man demurred a little,
and then said he would take time to think about it. When Gordon
called again, he declined the proposition, and said he had sold his
goods for money, not for work.
"But I have no money," replied Gordon.
"I'll wait awhile and see," returned the man, in a way and with a
significance that fretted the mind of Gordon.
"He'll wait until he sees me getting a little ahead, and then pounce
down upon me like a hawk upon his prey."
Over this idea the reformed man worried himself, and went home to
his wife unhappy and dispirited.
"I owe at least a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars," he
said; "and there is no hope of inducing all of those to whom money
is due to wait until we can pay them with comfort to ourselves. I
shall be tormented to death, I see that plain enough."
"Don't you look at the dark side, Henry?" replied his wife to this.
"I think you do. You owe some eight or ten persons, and one of them
has asked you for what was due. You offered to work out the debt,
and he accepted your offer. To another who has not asked you, you go
and make the same offer, which he declines, preferring to wait for
the money. There is nothing so really discouraging in all this, I am
sure. If he prefers waiting, let him wait. No doubt it will be the
same to us in the end. As to our getting much ahead or many comforts
around us until our debts are settled off, we might as well not
think of that. We will feel better to pay what we owe as fast as we
earn it; and, more than that, it will put the temptation to distress
us in nobody's way. If one man won't let you work out your debt, why
another will. I've no doubt that two-thirds of your creditors will
be glad to avail themselves of the offer."
Thus re-assured, Gordon felt better. On the next day he tried a
third party to whom he owed fifteen dollars. This man happened to
keep a retail grocery and liquor store. That is, he had a bar at one
counter, and sold groceries at the other. Two-thirds of the debt was
for liquor. "I want to wipe off that old score of mine, if I can,
Mr. King," said Gordon, as he met the storekeeper at his own door.
"That's clever," replied Mr. King. "Walk in. What will you take?
Some brandy?"
And Mr. King stepped behind the counter and laid his hand upon a
decanter.
"Nothing at all, I thank you," replied Gordon quickly.
"Why how's that? Have you sworn off?"
"Yes. I've joined the temperance society."
The storekeeper shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't expect that of
you, Gordon. I thought you were too fond of a little creature
comfort."
"I ruined myself and beggared my family by drink, if that is what
you mean by creature comfort. Poor comfort it was for my wife and
children, to say nothing of my own case, which was, Heaven knows,
bad enough. But I have come to talk to you about paying off that old
score. Now that I've given up drinking, I want to try and be honest
if I can."
"That's right. I like to see a man, when he sets out to be decent,
go the whole figure. Have you got the money?"
"No. I wish I had. I have no money and not half work; but I have
time on my hands, Mr. King."
"Time? That is what some people call money. You want to pay me in
time, instead of money, I presume? Rather rich, that, Gordon! But
time don't pass current, like money, in these diggins, my friend.
There are a plenty who come here--and throw it away for nothing. I
can get more than I want."
"I have no wish to throw my time away, nor to pass it upon you for
money, Mr. King. What I want is, to render you some service--in
other words, to work for you, if you can give me something to do. I
have time on my hands unemployed, and I wish to turn it to some good
account."
"O, yes. I understand now. Very well, Gordon; I rather think I can
meet your views. Yesterday my barkeeper was sent to prison for
getting into a scrape while drunk, and I want his place supplied
until he gets out. Come and tend bar for me a couple of weeks, and I
will give you a receipt in full of all demands."
Gordon shook his head and looked grave.
"What's the matter? Won't you do it?"
"No, sir. I can't do that."
"Why?"
"Because I have sworn neither to taste, touch, nor handle the
accursed thing. Neither to drink it myself, nor put it to the lips
of another. No, no, Mr. King, I can't do that. But I will sell your
groceries for you three days in the week, for four weeks. Part of my
time is already regularly engaged."
"Go off about your business!" said the store-keeper, his face red
with anger at the language of the reformed man, which he was pleased
to consider highly insulting. "I'll see to collecting that bill in a
different way from that."
By this time Gordon was learning not to be frightened and
discouraged at every thing. His wife had so often showed him its
folly, that he felt ashamed to go to her again in a desponding mood,
and therefore cheered himself up before going home.
In other quarters he found rather better success. Not all of those
he owed were of the stamp of the two to whom application had last
been made. In less than six months he had worked out nearly a
hundred dollars of what he owed, and had regular employment that
brought him in six dollars every week, besides earning, by odd jobs
and light porterage, from two to three dollars. His wife rarely let
a week go without producing her one or two dollars by needle-work.
Little comforts gradually crept in, notwithstanding all their debts
were not yet paid off. This was inevitable.
By the end of twelve months Gordon found himself clear of debt, and
in a good situation in a store at five hundred dollars a year.
"So much for 'Time, Faith, Energy,'" he said to himself, as he
walked backwards and forwards, in his comfortable little home, one
evening, thinking of the incidents of the year, and the results that
had followed. "I would not have believed it. Scarcely a twelvemonth
has passed, and here am I, a sober man and out of debt."
"Though still very far from the advanced position in the world you
held a few years ago, and to which you can never more attain," said
a desponding voice within him. "A man never has but one chance for
attaining ease and competence in this life. If he neglects that, he
need not waste his time in any useless struggles."
"Time, Faith, Energy!" spoke out another voice. "If one year has
done so much for you, what will not five, ten, or twenty years do?
Redouble your energies, have confidence in the future, and time will
make all right."
"I will have faith in time; I will have energy!" responded the man
in Gordon, speaking aloud.
From that time Gordon and his wife lived with even stricter economy
than before, in order to lay by a little money with which he
could,--at some future time, re-commence his own business, which was
profitable. There was still only a single shop in town, and that was
the one owned by his old employer, who had, in fact, built himself
up on his downfall, when he took to drinking and neglecting his
business. On less than a thousand dollars Gordon did not think of
commencing business. Less than that he knew would make the effort a
doubtful one. This amount he expected to save in about five years.
Two years of this time had elapsed, and Gordon had four hundred
dollars invested and bearing interest. He still held his situation
at five hundred dollars per annum. The only shop yet established in
the town for doing the work for which he was qualified both as a
journeyman and master workman, was that owned and still carried on
by his old employer, who had made a good deal of money; but who had,
of late, fallen into habits of dissipation and neglected his
business.
One evening, while Gordon was reading at home in his comfortable
little sitting-room, with his wife beside him engaged with her
needle, and both feeling very contented, there was a rap at the
door. On opening it Gordon recognized Mr. Evenly, and politely
invited him to come in. After being seated, his old employer, who
showed too plainly the debasing signs of frequent intoxication,
said--
"Gordon what are you doing now?"
The reformed man stated the nature of his occupation.
"What salary do you receive?" asked Evenly.
"Five hundred dollars a year."
"Do you like your present employment?"
"Yes, very well. It is lighter than my old business, and much
cleaner."
"Would you be willing to come to work for me again?" further
inquired Evenly.
"I don't know that I would. My present situation is permanent, my
employer a very pleasant man, and my work easy."
"Three things that are very desirable, certainly. But I'll tell you
what I want, and what I will give you. Perhaps we can make a
bargain. There is no man in town who understands our business better
than you do. That I am free to admit. Heretofore I have been my own
manager; but I am satisfied that it will be for my interest to have
a competent foreman in my establishment. If I can find one to suit
me I will give him liberal wages. You will do exactly; and if you
will take charge of my shop, I will make your wages fifteen dollars
a week. What do you say to that?"
"I rather think," replied Gordon, "that I will accept your offer.
Five dollars a week advance in wages for a poor man is a
consideration not lightly to be passed by."
"It is not, certainly," remarked Evenly. "Then I may consider it
settled that you will take charge of my shop."
"Yes. I believe I needn't hesitate about the matter."
So the arrangement was made, and Gordon went back to the shop as
foreman, from which he had been discharged as a journeyman three
years before.
Firmly bent upon commencing the business for himself, whenever he
should feel himself able to do so, Gordon continued his frugal mode
of living for two years longer, when the amount of his savings,
interest and all added, was very nearly fifteen hundred dollars. The
time had now come for him to take the step he had contemplated for
four years. Evenly received the announcement with undisguised
astonishment. After committing to such competent hands the entire
manufacturing part of his business, he had given himself up more and
more to dissipation. Had it not been for the active and energetic
manner in which the affairs of the shop were conducted by Gordon,
every thing would have fallen into disorder. But in a fair ratio
with the neglect of his principal was he efficient as his agent.
"I can't let you go," said Evenly, when Gordon informed him of his
intention to go into business for himself. "If fifteen dollars a
week doesn't satisfy you, you shall have twenty."
"It is not the wages," replied Gordon. "I wish to go into business
for myself. From the first this has been my intention."
"But you haven't the capital."
"Yes. I have fifteen hundred dollars."
"You have!"
"Yes. I have saved it in four years. That will give me a fair start.
I am not afraid for the rest."'
Evenly felt well satisfied that if Gordon went into business for
himself, his own would be ruined, and therefore, finding all efforts
to dissuade him from his purpose of no avail, he offered to take him
in as a partner. But to this came an unexpected objection. Gordon
was averse to such a connection. Being pressed to state the reason
why, he frankly said--
"My unwillingness to enter into business with you arises from the
fact that you are, as I was four years ago, a slave to strong drink.
You are not yourself one half of the time, and hardly ever in a fit
condition to attend to business. Pardon me for saying this. But you
asked for my reason, and I have given it."
Evenly, at first, was angry. But reflection soon came, and then he
felt humiliated as he had never felt before. There was no intention
on the part of Gordon to insult him, nor to triumph over him, but
rather a feeling of sorrow; and this Evenly saw.
"And this is your only objection?" he at length said.
"I have none other," replied Gordon.
"If it did not exist you would meet my proposals?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Then it shall no longer exist. From this hour I will be as free
from the vice you have named as you are."
"Will you sign the pledge?"
"Yes, this very hour."
And he did so.
A year afterwards an old friend, who had joined the temperance ranks
about the time Gordon did, and who had only got along moderately
well, passed the establishment of EVENLY & GORDON, and saw the
latter standing in the door.
"Are you in this concern?" he asked, in some surprise.
"Yes."
"And making money fast?"
"We are doing very well."
"Gordon, I don't understand this altogether. I tried to recover
myself, but soon got discouraged, and have ever since plodded along
in a poor way I live, it is true; but you are doing much better than
that. What is your secret?"
"It lies in three words," replied Gordon.
"Name them."
"Time, Faith, Energy!"
The man looked startled for a moment, and then walked away wiser
than when he asked the question. Whether he will profit by the
answer we cannot tell. Others may, if they will.
FLUSHED WITH WINE.
"WASN'T that Ernestine Lee that we passed this moment?" asked Harvey
Lane, a young M.D., of his friend James Everett, in a tone of
surprise.
"Yes, I believe it was--"Everett returned, rather coldly.
"You believe it was! Surely, James, nothing has occurred to destroy
the intimacy that has for some time existed between you."
"You saw that we did not speak."
"I did."
"And, probably, shall never be on terms of friendship again."
"What you say pains me very much, James. Of course there is a reason
for so great a change. May I ask what it is?"
"It is, no doubt, a good deal my own fault. But still, I cannot help
thinking that she has taken offence too suddenly, where no offence
was intended. You know that I have been long paying attentions to
her?"
"Yes."
"If I remember rightly, I told you last week, that my intentions
towards her were of a serious character. In a word, that I had fully
made up my mind to ask her hand in marriage."
"O, yes,--I remember it very well. And that is the reason why I felt
so much surprised at seeing you pass each other, without speaking."
"Well, a few evenings ago, I called, as usual, intending, if a good
opportunity offered, to make known my true feelings towards her.
Unfortunately, I had dined out that day with some young friends. We
sat late at table, and when I left, I was a _little flushed with
wine_. It was a very little, for you know that I can drink pretty
freely without its being seen. But, somehow, or other, I was more
elated than is usual with me on such occasions, and when I called on
Ernestine, felt as free and easy as if everything was settled, and
we were to be married in a week. For a time, we chatted together
very pleasantly; then I asked her to play and sing for me. She went
to the piano, at my request, and played and sung two or three very
sweet airs. I don't know which it was that elated my feelings so
much--the wine, or the delightful music. Certain it is, that at the
conclusion of a piece, I was in such rapture, that I threw my arms
around her neck, drew back her head, and kissed her with emphatic
earnestness."
"Why, James!"
"You may well be surprised at the commission of so rude and
ungentlemanly an act. But, as I have said, I was flushed with wine."
"How did Ernestine act?"
"She was, of course, deeply indignant at the unwarrantable liberty.
Springing from the piano-stool, her face crimsoned over, she drew
herself up with a dignified air, and ordered me instantly to leave
her presence. I attempted to make an apology, but she would not hear
a word. I have since written to her, but my letter has been returned
unopened."
"Really, that is unfortunate," the friend of Everett said, with
concern. "Ernestine is a girl whom any man might be proud to gain as
a wife. And, besides her personal qualifications, a handsome fortune
will go with her hand."
"I know all that too well, Harvey. Fool that I have been, to mar
such prospects as were mine! But she must have known that I was not
myself--and ought to have charged the fault upon the wine, and not
upon me."
"Such a discrimination is not usually made."
"I know that it is not. And for not making it in my case, I
certainly cannot help blaming Ernestine a little. She must have
known, that, had I not been flushed with wine, I never would have
taken the liberty with her that I did. As it is, however, I am not
only pained at the consequences of my foolishness, but deeply
mortified at my conduct."
"Is there no hope of a reconciliation?"
"I do not think there is any. If she had accepted my written apology
for the act, there would have been some hope. But the fact of her
returning my letter unopened, is conclusive as to the permanency of
the breach. I can now make no further advances."
"Truly, it is mortifying!" the friend remarked. Then, after a pause,
he added, with emphasis--
"What fools this wine does make of us, sometimes!"
"Doesn't it? Another such a circumstance as this, would almost drive
me to join a temperance society."
"O, no, hardly that, James."
"Well, perhaps not. But, at least, to eschew wine for ever."
"Wine is good enough in its place; but, like fire, is rather a bad
master. Like you, I have injured my prospects in life by an
over-indulgence in the pleasures of the cup."
"You?"
"Yes."
"When did that happen?"
"Since I last saw you."
"Indeed! I am sorry to hear you say so. But how was it?--tell me."
"You know, that as a young physician, I shall have to struggle on in
this city for years before I can rise to any degree of distinction,
unless aided by some fortunate circumstance, that shall be as a
stepping-stone upon which to elevate me, and enable me to gain the
public eye. I am conscious that I have mastered thoroughly the
principles of my profession--and that, in regard to surgery,
particularly, I possess a skill not surpassed by many who have
handled the knife for years. Of this fact, my surgical teacher, who
is my warm friend, is fully aware. At every important case that he
has, I am desired to be present, and assist in the operation, and
once or twice, where there were no friends of the patient to object,
I have been permitted to perform the operation myself, and always
with success. In this department of my profession, I feel great
confidence in myself--and it is that part of it, in which I take the
most interest."
"And in which, I doubt not, you will one day be distinguished."
"I trust so; and yet, things look dark enough just now. But to go
on. A few days ago, I dined with some friends. After dinner, the
bottle was circulated pretty freely, and I drank as freely as the
rest, but was not aware of having taken enough to produce upon me
any visible effects. It was about an hour after the table had been
cleared for the wine, that an unusually loud ringing of the
door-bell attracted our attention. In a few moments after, I heard a
voice asking, in hurried tones, for Doctor Lane. Going down at once
to the hall, I found old Mr. Camper there, the rich merchant, in a
state of great agitation.
"'Doctor,' said he, grasping my arm,--'a most terrible accident has
happened to my daughter!--thrown from a carriage!--My physician
cannot be found, and as I have often heard your skill warmly alluded
to by him, I desire your instant attendance. My carriage is at the
door--Come along with me, quickly.'
"Catching up my hat, I attended him at once, and during our rapid
drive to his princely residence, learned that his only daughter had
been thrown from a carriage, and dreadfully injured; but in what
way, could not ascertain. Unaccountably to myself, I found my mind
all in confusion,--and, strange, unprofessional omission! forgot to
request that I be driven first to my office for my case of
instruments. We had not proceeded half the distance to Mr. Camper's
residence, before I noticed that the old man became silent, and that
his eye was fixed upon me with a steady, scrutinizing gaze. This
added to the confusion of mind which I felt. At length the carriage
stopped, and I accompanied Mr. Camper to his daughter's chamber,
hurriedly, and in silence. As I paused by the bed upon which she
lay, I again noticed that he was regarding me with a steady
searching look, and an expression of face that I did not like, and
could not understand.
"I proceeded, however, at once, to examine the condition of my
patient, who lay in a kind of stupor. There was a deep gash on the
side of her face, from which the blood had issued profusely. By the
aid of warm-water, I soon cleared the wound from a mass of
coagulated blood that had collected around it, and was glad to find
that it was not a serious one. I then proceeded to examine if there
were any fractures. All this time my hands were unsteady, my face
burned, and my mind was confused. _I was conscious that I had taken
too much wine._
"'There is no apparent injury here,' I at length said, after
examining the arms and chest. 'She is probably only stunned by the
concussion.'
"'But she could not stand on her feet when first lifted after the
fall, and fainted immediately upon attempting to sustain her own
weight,' Mr. Camper replied.
"I then made further examination, and found sad indications of her
fall, in a fractured patella. The knee was, however, so swollen,
that I could not ascertain the nature, nor extent of the fracture.
"'What do you find the matter there, doctor?' Mr. Camper asked,
after I had finished my examination.
"'A very serious injury, sir, I am sorry to say,' was my reply.
"'Of what nature?' was his somewhat stern inquiry.
"'Her knee-pan is fractured, sir; but so much swollen, that I
cannot, now, fully ascertain the extent of the injury.'"
"Henry!" cried the old man in a quick, eager tone to an attendant,
"go again for doctor L--; and if he is not in, go for doctor
R--; and if you cannot find him, call on doctor T--, and ask him
to come instantly."
The attendant hurriedly departed, when Mr. Camper turned slowly
towards me, with a mingled expression of anger, pain, and contempt,
upon his face, and said, in a stern voice,
"'Go home young man! and quit drinking wine, or quit the profession!
You are in no fit state to undertake a case like this.'
"It came upon me like a peal of thunder from an unclouded summer
sky. It was the knell of newly-awakened hopes--the darkening of
newly-opening prospects. Silently I turned away under the cutting
rebuke, and left the house."
"Really, that was most unfortunate!" his friend Everett remarked,
with earnest sympathy.
"Could anything have been more unfortunate, or more mortifying. Her
case was one that I fully understood; and could have treated
successfully. It would have brought me into contact with the family
for six months, or more, and the _eclat_ which I should have derived
from the case, would have given me a prominence as a young surgeon,
that I am afraid the fact of my losing the case under such
mortifying circumstances, will prevent me ever attaining in this
city."
"Really, Harvey, I do feel exceedingly pained at what you have told
me. Confound this wine! I believe it does more harm than good."
"Too free an indulgence of it does, no doubt. Our error has lain in
this. We must be more prudent in future."
"Suppose we swear off for ever from touching it."
"No, I will not do that. Wine is good in its place, and I shall
continue to use it, but more moderately. A physician never knows the
moment he may be called upon, and should, therefore, always be in a
state to exercise a clear head and a steady hand."
"Certainly, we have both of us had lessons not soon to be
forgotten," was the reply; and then the two young men separated.
Two weeks from the day this conversation took place, doctor Lane and
his friend James Everett met at a supper-party, where all kinds of
liquors were introduced, and every kind of inducement held out for
the company to drink freely. Both of the young men soon forgot their
resolutions to be guarded in respect to the use of wine. As the
first few glasses began to take effect, in an elevation of spirits,
each felt a kind of pride in the thought that he could bear as much
as any one there, and not show signs of intoxication.
By eleven o'clock, there was not one at the table who was not drunk
enough to be foolish. The rational and intelligent conversation that
had been introduced early in the evening, had long since given place
to the obscene jest--the vulgar story--or the bacchanalian song.
Gayest of the gay were our young men, who had already, one would
think, received sufficient lessons of prudence and temperance.
"Take care, James!" cried Lane, across the table to his friend
Everett, familiarly, late in the evening. "You are pouring the wine
on the table, instead of in your glass."
"You are beginning to see double," was Everett's reply, lifting his
head with a slight drunken air, and throwing a half-angry glance
upon his friend.
"That is more than you can do," was the retort, with a meaning toss
of the head.
"I don't understand you," Everett said, pausing with the decanter
still in his hand, and eyeing his friend, steadily.
"Don't you, indeed! You see yourself in a state of blessed
singleness--ha! Do you take?"
"Look here, James,--you are my friend. But there are things that I
will not allow even a friend to utter. So take care now!"
"Ha! ha! There comes the raw. Do I rub too hard, my boy?"
"You 're drunk, and a fool into the bargain!" was the angry retort
of Everett.
"Not so drunk as you were when you hugged and kissed Ernestine Lee!
How do you like--?"
Lane could not finish the sentence, before the decanter which
Everett had held in his hand glanced past his head with fearful
velocity, and was dashed into fragments against the wall behind him.
The instant interference of friends prevented any further acts of
violence.
It was about ten o'clock on the next morning that young doctor Lane
sat in his office, musing on the events of the previous night, of
which he had only a confused recollection, when a young man entered,
and presented a note. On opening it, he found it to be a challenge
from Everett.
"Leave me your card, and I will refer my friend to you," was his
reply, with a cold bow, as he finished reading the note. The card
was left, and the stranger, with a frigid bow in return, departed.
"Fool, fool that I have been!" ejaculated Lane, rising to his feet,
and pacing the floor of his office backwards and forwards with
hurried steps. This was continued for nearly half an hour, during
which time his countenance wore a painful and gloomy expression. At
last, pausing, and seating himself at a table, he murmured, as he
lifted a pen,
"It is too late now for vain regrets."
He then wrote a note with a hurried air, and dispatched it by an
attendant. This done, he again commenced pacing the floor of his
office, but now with slower steps, and a face expressive of sad
determination. In about twenty minutes a young man entered, saying,
as he did so--
"I'm here at a word, Harvey--and now what is this important business
which I can do for you, and for which you are going to be so
everlastingly obliged?"
"That will tell you," Lane briefly said, handing him the challenge
he had received.
The young man's face turned pale as he read the note.
"Bless me, Harvey!" he ejaculated, as he threw the paper upon the
table. "This is a serious matter, truly! Why how have you managed to
offend Everett? I always thought that you were friends of the
warmest kind."
"So we have been, until now. And at this moment, I have not an
unkind thought towards him, notwithstanding he threw a bottle of
wine at my head last night, which, had it taken effect, would have,
doubtless, killed me instantly."
"How in the world did that happen, doctor?"
"We were both flushed with wine, at the time. I said something that
I ought not to have said--something which had I been myself, I would
have cut off my right hand before I would have uttered--and it
roused him into instant passion."
"And not satisfied with throwing the bottle of wine at your head, he
now sends you a challenge?"
"Yes. And I must accept it, notwithstanding I have no angry feelings
against him; and, but for the hasty step he has now taken, would
have most willingly asked his pardon."
"That, of course, is out of the question now," the friend replied.
"But I will see his second; and endeavour, through him, to bring
about a reconciliation, if I can do so, honourably, to yourself."
"As to that," replied Lane, "I have nothing to say. If he insists
upon a meeting, I will give him the satisfaction he seeks."
It was about half an hour after, that the friend of Lane called upon
the friend of Everett. They were old acquaintances.
"You represent Everett, I believe, in this unpleasant affair between
him and doctor Lane," the latter said.
"I do," was the grave reply.
"Surely we can prevent a meeting!" the friend of Lane said, with
eagerness.
"I do not see how," was the reply.
"They were flushed with wine when the provocation occurred, and this
ought to prevent a fatal meeting. If Lane insulted Everett, it was
because he was not himself. Had he been perfectly sober, he would
never have uttered an offensive word."
"Perhaps not. But with that I have nothing to do. He has insulted my
friend, and that friend asks a meeting. He can do no less than grant
it--or prove himself a coward."
"I really cannot see the necessity that this should follow," urged
the other. "It seems to me, that it is in our power to prevent any
hostile meeting."
"How?"
"By representing to the principals in this unhappy affair, the
madness of seeking each other's lives. You can learn from Everett
what kind of an apology, if any, will satisfy him, and then I can
ascertain whether such an apology will be made."
"You can do what you please in that way," the friend of Everett
replied. "But I am not disposed to transcend my office. Besides, I
know that, as far as Everett is concerned, no apology will be
accepted. The insult was outrageous, involving a breach of
confidence, and referring to a subject of the most painful,
mortifying, and delicate nature."
"I am really sorry to hear that both you and your friend are
determined to push this matter to an issue, for I had hoped that an
adjustment of the difficulty would be easy."
"No adjustment can possibly take place. Doctor Lane must fight, or
be posted as a coward, and a scoundrel."
"He holds himself ready to give Mr. Everett all the satisfaction he
requires," was the half-indignant reply.
"Then, of course, you are prepared to name the weapons; and the time
and place of meeting?"
"I am not. For so confident did I feel that it would only be
necessary to see you to have all difficulties put in a train for
adjustment, that I did not confer upon the subject of the
preliminaries of the meeting. But I will see you again, in the
course of an hour, when I shall be ready to name them."
"If you please." And then the seconds parted.
"I am afraid this meeting will take place in spite of all that I can
do," the friend of doctor Lane said, on returning after his
interview with Everett's second. "The provocation which you gave
last night is felt to be so great, that no apology can atone for
it."
"My blood probably will,--and he can have that!" was the gloomy
reply.
A troubled silence ensued, which was at last broken by the question,
"Have you decided, doctor, upon the weapons to be used?"
"Pistols, I suppose," was the answer.
"Have you practised much?"
"Me! No. I don't know that I ever fired a pistol in my life."
"But Everett is said to be a good shot."
"So much the worse for me. That is all."
"You have the liberty of choosing some other weapon. One with which
you are familiar."
"I am familiar with no kind of deadly weapons."
"Then you will stand a poor chance, my friend; unless you name the
day of meeting next week, and practise a good deal in the meantime."
"I shall do no such thing. Do you suppose, that if I fight with
Everett, I shall try to kill him? No. I would not hurt a hair of his
head. I am no murderer!"
"Then you go out under the existence of a fatal inequality."
"I cannot help that. It is my misfortune. I did not send the
challenge."
"That is no reason why you should not make an effort to preserve
your own life."
"If we both fire at once, and both of our balls take effect, the
fact that my ball strikes him will not benefit me any. And suppose
he should be killed, and I survive, do you think I could ever know a
single hour's happiness? No--no--I choose the least of two evils. I
must fight. But I will not kill."
"In this you are determined?"
"I certainly am. I have weighed the matter well, and come to a
positive decision."
"You choose pistols, then?"
"Yes. Let the weapons be pistols."
"When shall the meeting take place?"
"Let it be to-morrow morning, at sunrise. The quicker it is over,
the better."
This determined upon, the friend went again to the second of
Everett, and completed all necessary arrangements for the duel.
It was midnight, and young doctor Lane sat alone in his chamber,
beside a table, upon which were ink and paper. He had, evidently,
made several attempts to write; and each time failed from some cause
to accomplish his task. Several sheets of paper had been written
upon, and thrown aside. Each of these bore the following words:--
"_My Dear Parents:--_When these lines are read by you, the hand
that penned them will be cold and nerveless--"
Thus far the unhappy young man could go, but no farther. Imagination
pictured too vividly the heart-stricken father who had so often
looked down upon him when a boy with pride and pleasure, and the
tender, but now agonized mother, as that appalling announcement met
their eyes.
Again, for the fifth time, he took up his pen, murmuring in a low
tone, yet with a resolute air,
"It must be done!"
He had again written the words:--
"My Dear Parents--"
When his ear caught the sound of steps, strangely familiar to his
ear, ascending the stairs, and approaching his chamber. He paused,
and listened with a heart almost stilled in its pulsations. In a
brief space, the door of his room opened, and a grey-haired, feeble
old man came slowly in.
"My father!" exclaimed Harvey, starting to his feet in
astonishment--scarcely, for the moment, being able to realize
whether it were indeed his father, or, only an apparition.
"Thank heaven! that I have found my son alive--" ejaculated the old
man, uncovering his head, and lifting his eyes upward. "O, Harvey,
my child!" he then said, with an earnest pathos, that touched the
young man's heart--"how could you so far forget us as to think even
for a single moment of the dreadful act you are preparing to
commit?"
"I had hoped to be spared this severest trial of all," the young man
said, rising and grasping the hand of his father, while the tears
sprang to his eyes. "What officious friend has taken the pains to
disturb both your peace and mine--dragging you thus away from your
home, in the vain effort to prevent an act that must take place."
"Speak not so rashly, my son! It cannot, it must not, it shall not
take place!"
"I have no power to prevent it, father."
"You are a free agent."
"Not to do a deed of dishonour,--or, rather, I am not free to suffer
dishonour."
"There is no honour in wantonly risking or taking life, Harvey."
"I insulted a friend, in the grossest manner."
"_That_ was dishonourable. But why did you insult him?"
"I was _flushed with wine_."
The old man shook his head, sadly.
"I know it was wrong, father. But it can't be helped now. Well, as I
said; I insulted him, and he has demanded satisfaction. Can I do
less than give it to him?"
"If you insulted him, you can apologize. And, from what I know of
James Everett, he will at once forgive."
"I cannot do that now, father. He threw a bottle of wine at my head,
and then precipitately challenged me. I owe at least something to
myself."
"And something, I should think, to your mother, if not to me,"
replied the old man, bitterly. "How, think you she will receive the
news of your death, if the combat should terminate fatally for you?
Or, how, if your hands should become stained with the blood of your
friend?"
"Talk not thus, father! Talk not thus!" ejaculated the young man,
rising up quickly, and beginning to pace the floor of his chamber
with hurried steps. "Is not my situation dreadful enough viewed in
any light? Then why seek to agonize my heart with what I would
gladly forget? I am already racked with tortures that can scarcely
be endured--why seek to run my cup of misery over?"
"I seek but to save you, my child," the father replied, in a voice
that suddenly became low and tremulous.
"It is a vain effort. There is but one course for me, and that is to
go on, and meet whatever consequences ensue. The result may not be
so bad as feared."
"Harvey!" old Mr. Lane said, in a voice that had somewhat regained
its steadiness of tone. "This meeting must not take place. If you
persist in going out tomorrow morning, I must take measures to
prevent it."
"And thus dishonour your son."
"All dishonour that will appertain to you, Harvey, appertains to you
now. You insulted your friend. Neither your death nor his can atone
for that offence. If reparation be truly made, it will come in some
other form."
"It is vain to urge that matter with me," was the reply to this. "I
must give James Everett the satisfaction he requires to-morrow
morning. And now, father, if I should fall, which heaven forbid for
others' sakes more than my own," and the young man's voice quivered,
"break the matter to my mother as gently as possible--tell her, that
my last thoughts were of her, and my last prayer that she might be
given strength from above to bear this heavy affliction."
It was a damp, drizzly morning, just at break of day, when Harvey
Lane, accompanied by his friend, and a young physician, entered a
close carriage, and started for the duelling-ground, which had been
selected, some four miles from the city. Two neat mahogany cases
were taken along, one containing a pair of duelling pistols, and the
other a set of surgical instruments. As these were handed in, the
eye of Lane rested upon them for a moment. They conjured up in his
mind no very pleasant thoughts. He was very pale, and silent. Nor
did his companions seem in much better condition, or much better
spirits. A rapid drive of nearly three quarters of an hour brought
them upon the ground. The other party had not yet arrived, but came
up in a few minutes afterwards. Then commenced the formal
preparations. The ground was measured off--ten paces. The seconds
prepared the deadly weapons which were to heal the honour that had
been so dreadfully wounded, and arranged all the minor provisions of
the duel.
During all this time, neither of the young men looked towards each
other, but each paced rapidly over a little space of ground,
backwards and forwards, with agitated steps--though evidently with
an effort to seem composed.
"Ready," said Lane's second, at length, close to his ear.
The young man started, and his cheek blanched to a pale hue. He had
been thinking of his father and mother. With almost the vividness of
reality had he seen them before him, and heard their earnest;
tearful pleadings with him to forbear for their sakes, if not for
his own. But he took the deadly weapon in his hand mechanically, and
moved to the position that had been assigned him. The arrangement
was, that the seconds should give the words--one--two--three--in
slow succession, and that the parties should fire as soon after
"three" was uttered, as they chose.
Their positions taken, the young men's eyes met for the first
time--and for the first time they looked again upon each other's
faces. The word one had been given, at which each raised his
pistol,--_two_ was uttered--and then another individual was
suddenly, and unexpectedly added to the party, who threw himself in
front of Harvey Lane, in range of both the deadly weapons. Turning,
then, towards Everett, he said, lifting his hat, and letting his
thin grey hairs fall about his forehead--
"We cannot spare our son, yet, James! We are growing old, and he is
our only child. If he were taken thus away from us, we should not be
able to bear it. For our sakes, then, James, if he has injured you,
forgive him."
Already had the face of his old and long-tried friend, as he met its
familiar expression, softened in some degree the feelings of
Everett, and modified the angry vindictiveness which he still
continued to cherish. The apparition of the father, and his
unexpected appeal, completely conquered him, and he threw, with a
sudden effort, his pistol away some twenty yards.
"I am satisfied!" he said, in a low tone, advancing, and taking the
old man's hand. "You have conquered the vindictive pride of a
foolish heart."
"I know that I grossly insulted you, James"--Harvey Lane said,
coming quickly forward, and offering his hand. "But would I, could I
have done it, if I had been myself?"
"No, Harvey, you could not! And I was mad and blind that I would not
see this"--Everett replied, grasping the hand of his friend. "We
were both _flushed with wine_, and that made both of us fools.
Surely, Harvey, we have had warning enough, of the evil of drinking.
Within the last two weeks, it has seriously marred our prospects in
life, and now it has brought us out here with the deliberate intent
of taking each other's lives."
"From this hour, I solemnly declare, that I will never again touch,
taste, or handle the accursed thing!" Lane said, with strong
emphasis.
"In that resolution I join you," replied Everett, with a like
earnest manner. "And let this resolution be the sealing bond of our
perpetual friendship."
"Amen!" ejaculated Harvey Lane, solemnly,--and, "Amen!" responded
the old man, fervently, lifting his eyes to Heaven.
SWEARING OFF.
"JOHN," said a sweet-faced girl, laying her hand familiarly upon the
shoulder of a young man who was seated, near a window in deep
abstraction of mind. There was something sad in her voice,--and her
countenance, though, lovely, wore an expression of pain.
"What do you want, sister?" the young man replied, without lifting
his eyes from the floor.
"You are not happy, brother."
To this, there was no reply, and an embarrassing pause of some
moments ensued.
"May I speak a word with you, brother?"--the young girl at length
said, with a tone and manner that showed her to be compelling
herself to the performance of a painful and repugnant task.
"On what subject, Alice?" the brother asked, looking up with a
doubting expression.
This question brought the colour to Alice's cheeks, and the moisture
to her eyes.
"You know what I would say, John," she at length made out to utter,
in a voice that slightly trembled.
"How should I know, sister?"
"You were not yourself last night, John."
"Alice!"
"Forgive me, brother, for what I now say," the maiden rejoined. "It
is a painful trial, indeed; and were it not that I loved you so
well--were it not that, besides you, there is no one else in the
wide world to whom I can look up, I might shrink from a sister's
duty. But I feel that it would be wrong for me not to whisper in
your ear one warning word--wrong not to try a sister's power over
you."
"I will forgive you this time, on one condition," the brother said,
in a tone of rebuke, and with a grave expression of countenance.
"What is that?" asked Alice.
"On condition that you never again, directly or indirectly, allude
to this subject. It is not in your province to do so. A sister
should not look out for her brother's faults."
A sudden gush of tears followed this cold, half-angry repulse; and
then the maiden turned slowly away and left the room.
John Barclay's anger towards his only sister, who had no one, as she
had feelingly said, in the wide world to look up to and love, but
him, subsided the moment he saw how deeply his rebuke had wounded
her. But he could not speak to her, nor recall his words--for the
subject she had introduced was one so painful and mortifying, that
he could not bear an allusion to it.
From long indulgence, the habit of drinking had become confirmed in
the young man to such a degree that he had almost ceased to resist
an inclination that was gaining a dangerous power over him. And yet
there was in his mind an abiding resolution one day to break away
from this habit. He did not intend to become a drunkard. Oh, no! The
condition of a drunkard was too low and degrading. He could never
sink to that! After awhile, he intended to "swear off," as he called
it, and be done with the seductive poison altogether; but he had not
yet been able to bring so good a resolution into present activity.
This being his state of mind--conscious of danger, and yet unwilling
to fly from that danger, he could not bear any allusion to the
subject.
Half an hour, passed in troubled thought, elapsed after this brief
interview between the brother and sister, when the young man left
the house and took his way, scarcely reflecting upon where he was
going, to one of his accustomed places of resort--a fashionable
drinking house, where every device that ingenuity could invent, was
displayed to attract custom. Splendid mirrors and pictures hung
against the walls, affecting the mind with pleasing thoughts--and
tempting to self-indulgence. There were lounges, where one might
recline at ease, while he sipped the delicious compounds the richly
furnished bar afforded, never once dreaming that a serpent lay
concealed in the cup that he held to his lips--a serpent that one
day would sting him, perhaps unto death!
"Regular as clock-work,"--said an old man, a friend of Barclay's
father, who had been dead several years, meeting the young man as he
was about to enter the attractive establishment just alluded to.
"How?" asked Barclay in a tone of enquiry.
"Six times a day, John, is too often for you to be seen going into
the same drinking-house,"--said the old man, with plain-spoken
honesty.
"You must not talk to me in that way, Mr. Gray," the other rejoined
sternly.
"My respect and regard for the father, will ever cause me to speak
plainly to the son when I think him in danger," was Mr. Gray's calm
reply.
"In danger of what, Mr. Gray?"
"In danger of--shall I utter the word in speaking o' the son of my
old friend, Mr. Barclay? Yes; in danger of--drunkenness!"
"Mr. Gray, I cannot permit any one to speak to me thus."
"Be not offended at me, John. I utter but the truth."
"I will not stand to be insulted by any one!" was the young man's
angry reply, as he turned suddenly away from his aged friend, and
entered the drinking-house. He did not go up at once to the bar, as
had been his habit, but threw himself down upon one of the lounges,
took up a newspaper, and commenced; or rather, appeared to commence
reading, though he did not, in fact, see a letter.
"What will you have, Mr. Barclay?" asked an officious attendant,
coming up, a few moments after he had entered.
"Nothing just now," was the reply, made in a low tone, while his
eyes were not lifted from the newspaper. No very pleasant
reflections were those that passed through his mind as he sat there.
At last he rose up quickly, as if a resolution, had been suddenly
formed, and left the place where clustered so many temptations, with
a hurried step.
"I want you to administer an oath," he said, entering the office of
an Alderman, a few minutes after.
"Very well, sir. I am ready," replied the Alderman. "What is its
nature?"
"I will give you the form."
"Well?"
"I, John Barclay, do solemnly swear, that for six months from this
hour, I will not taste a drop of any kind of liquor that
intoxicates."
"I wouldn't take that oath, young man," the Alderman said.
"Why not?"
"You had better go and join a temperance society. Signing the pledge
will be of as much avail."
"No--I will not sign a pledge never to drink again. I'm not going to
make a mere slave of myself. I'll swear off for six months."
"Why not swear off perpetually, then?"
"Because, as I said, I am not going to make a slave of myself. Six
months of total-abstinence will give me a control over myself that I
do not now possess."
"I very much fear, sir," urged the Alderman, notwithstanding he
perceived that the young man was growing impatient--"and you must
pardon my freedom in saying so, that you will find yourself in
error. If you are already so much the slave of drink as to feel
yourself compelled to have recourse to the solemnities of an oath to
break away from its bewitching power, depend upon it, that no
temporary expedient of this kind will be of any avail. You will, no
doubt, keep your oath religiously, but when its influence is
withdrawn, you will find the strength of an unsupported resolution
as weak as ever."
"I do not believe the position you take to be a true one," argued
young Barclay--"All I want is to get rid of present temptation, and
to be freed from present associations. Six months will place me
beyond the reach of these, and then I shall be able to do right from
an internal principle, and not from mere external restraint."
"I see the view you take, and would not urge a word against it, did
I not know so many instances of individuals who have vainly opposed
their resolutions against the power of habit. When once an appetite
for intoxicating drinks has been formed, there is only one way of
safety--that of taking a perpetual pledge of total-abstinence. That,
and that alone is the wall of sure protection. Without it, you are
exposed to temptations on every hand. The manly and determined
effort to be free will not always avail. In some weak and
unsuspecting moment, the tempter will steal quietly in, and all will
be again lost."
"It is useless, sir, to argue the point with me," Barclay replied to
this. "I will not now take the pledge--that is settled. I will take
an oath of abstinence for six months. If I can keep to it that long,
I can keep from drinking always."
Seeing that further argument would be useless, the Alderman said no
more, but proceeded to administer the oath. The young man then paid
the required fee and turned from the office in silence.
When Alice left the room in tears, stung by the cutting rebuke of
her brother, she retired to her chamber with an oppressed and aching
heart. She loved him tenderly. They were, sister and brother, alone
in the world, and, therefore, her affections clung the closer to
him. The struggle had been a hard one in bringing herself to perform
the duty which had called down upon her the anger of one for whom
she would almost have given her life; and, therefore, the result was
doubly painful, more particularly, as it had effected nothing,
apparently, towards a change in his habits.
"But perhaps it will cause him to reflect.--If so, I will cheerfully
bear his anger," was the consoling thought that passed through her
mind, after the passage of an hour, spent under the influence of
most painful feelings.
"O, if he will only be more on his guard," she went on, in
thought--"if he will only give up that habit, how glad I should be!"
Just then she heard him enter, and marked the sound of his footsteps
as he ascended to his own room, with a fluttering heart. In the
course of fifteen or twenty minutes, he went down again, and she
listened to observe if he were going out. But he entered the
parlours, and then all was, again, quiet.
For some time Alice debated with herself whether she should go down
to him or not, and make the effort to dispel the anger that she had
aroused against her; but she could not make up her mind how to act,
for she could not tell in what mood she might find him. One repulse
was as much, she felt, as she could bear. At last, however, her
feelings became so wrought up, that she determined to go down and
seek to be reconciled. Her brother's anger was more than she could
bear.
When she entered the parlours, with her usual quiet step, she found
him seated near the window, reading. He lifted his head as she came
in, and she saw at a glance that all his angry feelings were gone.
How lightly did her heart bound as she sprang forward!
"Will you forgive me, brother?" she said, laying her hand upon his
shoulder as she stood by his side, and bent her face down until her
fair cheek almost touched his own.
"Rather let me say, will you forgive me, sister?" was his reply, as
he kissed her affectionately--"for the unkind repulse I gave you,
when to say what you did must have caused you a most painful
sacrifice of feeling?"
"Painful indeed it was, brother. But it is past now and all
forgiven."
"Since then, Alice," he said, after a pause, "I have taken a solemn
oath, administered by an Alderman, not to touch any kind of
intoxicating drink for six months."
"O, I am so glad, John!" the sister said, a joyful smile lighting up
her beautiful young face. "But why did you say six months? Why not
for life?"
"Because, Alice, I do not wish to bind myself down to a kind of
perpetual slavery. I wish to be free, and act right in freedom from
a true principle of right. Six months of entire abstinence from all
kinds of liquor will destroy that appetite for it which has caused
me, of late, to seek it far too often. And then I will, as a free
man, remain free."
"I shall now be so happy again, John!" Alice said, fully satisfied
with her brother's reason.
"So you have not been happy then of late?"
"O, no, brother. Far from it."
"And has the fact of my using wine so freely been the cause of your
unhappiness?"
"Solely."
"Its effects upon me have not been so visible as often to attract
your attention, Alice?"
"O, yes, they have. Scarcely a day has gone by for three or four
months past, that I could not see that your mind was obscured, and
often your actions sensibly affected."
"I did not dream that it was so, Alice.'
"Are you not sensible, that at Mr. Weston's, last night you were by
no means yourself?"
"Yes, Alice, I am sensible of that, and deeply has it mortified me.
I was suffering acutely from the recollection of the exposure which
I made of myself on that occasion, especially before Helen, when you
alluded to the subject. That was the reason that I could not bear
your allusion to it. But tell me, Alice, did you perceive that my
situation attracted Helen's attention particularly?"
"Yes. She noticed, evidently, that you were not as you ought to have
been."
"How did it affect her, Alice?" asked the young man.
"She seemed much pained, and, I thought, mortified."
"Mortified?"
"Yes."
A pause of some moments ensued, when Barclay asked, in a tone of
interest,
"Do you think it has prejudiced her against me?"
"It has evidently pained her very much, but I do not think that it
has created in her mind any prejudice against you."
"From what do you infer this, Alice?"
"From the fact, that, while we were alone in her chamber, on my
going up stairs to put on my bonnet and shawl, she said to me, and
her eyes were moist as well as my own, 'Alice, you ought to speak to
your brother, and caution him against this free indulgence in wine;
it may grow on him, unawares. If he were as near to me as he is to
you, I should not feel that my conscience was clear unless I warned
him of his danger.'"
"Did she say that, sister?"
"Yes, those were her very words."
"And you did warn me, faithfully."
"Yes. But the task is one I pray that I may never again have to
perform."
"Amen," was the fervent response.
"How do you like Helen?" the young man asked, in a livelier tone,
after a silence of nearly a minute.
"I have always been attached to her, John. You know that we have
been together since we were little girls, until now we seem almost
like sisters."
"And a sister, truly, I hope she may one day become," the brother
said, with a meaning smile.
"Most affectionately will I receive her as such," was the reply of
Alice. "Than Helen Weston, there is no one whom I had rather see the
wife of my dear brother."
As she said this, she drew her arm around his neck, and kissed him
affectionately.
"It shall not be my fault, then, Alice, if she do not become your
sister--" was the brother's response.
Rigidly true to his pledge, John Barclay soon gained the honourable
estimation in the social circle through which he moved, that he had
held, before wine, the mocker, had seduced him from the ways of true
sobriety, and caused even his best friends to regard him with
changed feelings. Possessing a competence, which a father's patient
industry had accumulated, he had not, hitherto, thought of entering
upon any business. Now, however, he began to see the propriety of
doing so, and as he had plenty of capital, he proposed to a young
man of industrious habits and thorough knowledge of business to
enter into a co-partnership with him. This offer was accepted, and
the two young men commenced the world with the fairest prospects.
Three months from the day on which John Barclay had mentioned to his
sister that he entertained a regard for Helen Weston, he made
proposals of marriage to that young lady, which were accepted.
"But how in regard to his pledge?" I hear some one ask.
O, as to that, it was kept, rigidly. Nothing that could intoxicate
was allowed to touch his lips. Of course, he was at first frequently
asked to drink by his associates, but his reply to all importunities
was--
"No--I have sworn off for six months."
"So you have said for the last six months," remarked young man,
named Watson, one day, on his refusing for the twentieth time to
drink with him.
"Not for six months, Watson. It is only three months this very day
since I swore off."
"Well, it seems to me like six months, anyhow. But do you think that
you feel any better for all this total-abstinence?"
"O as to that, I don't know that I feel such a wonderful difference
in body; but in mind I certainly do feel a great deal better."
"How so?"
"While I drank, I was conscious that I was beginning to be too fond
of drinking, and was too often painfully conscious that I had taken
too much. Now, I am, of course, relieved from all such unpleasant
feelings."
"Well, that's something, at least. But I never saw you out of the
way."
"Do you know the reason; Watson?"
"No."
"I'll tell you. You were always too far gone yourself, when we drank
freely together, to perceive my condition."
"So you say."
"It's true."
"Well, have it as you like. But, see here, John, what are you going
to do when your six months are out?"
"I'm going to be a sober man, as I am now."
"You never were a drunkard."
"I was precious near being one, then."
"Nonsense! That's all some old woman's notion of yours."
"Well, be that as it may, I certainly intend continuing to be as
sober a man as I have been for the last three months."
"Won't you drink a drop after your time is up?"
"That'll be just as I choose. I will drink or let it alone, as I
like. I shall then be free to drink moderately, or not at all, as
seems agreeable to me."
"That is a little more sensible than your perpetual
total-abstinence, teetotal, cold-water system. Who would be such a
miserable slave? I would rather die drunk in the gutter, than throw
away my liberty."
"I believe I have said as much myself."
"Don't you feel a desire to have a good glass of wine, or a julep,
now and then?"
"No, not the slightest. I've sworn off for six months, and that ends
the matter. Of course, I have no more desire for a glass of liquor
than I have to fly to the moon,--one is a moral, and the other a
physical impossibility; and, therefore, are dismissed from my
thoughts."
"What do you mean by a moral impossibility?"
"I have taken an oath not to drink for six months, and the violation
of that oath is, for one of my views and feelings, a moral
impossibility."
"Exactly. There are three months yet to run, you say. After that, I
hope to have the pleasure of taking a glass of wine with you in
honour of your restoration to a state of freedom."
"You shall have that pleasure, Watson, if it will really be one--"
was Barclay's reply, as the two young men parted.
Time wore on, and John Barclay, besides continuing perfectly sober,
gave constant attention to business. So complete a change in him
gave confidence to the parents and friends of Helen Weston, who made
no opposition to his wish for an early marriage. It was fixed to
take place on the evening of the very day upon which his temporary
pledge was to expire.
To the expiration of this pledge, Barclay had never ceased, from the
moment it was taken, to look forward with a lively interest. Not
that he felt a desire to drink. But he suffered himself to be
worried with the idea that he was no longer a free man. The nearer
the day came that was to terminate the period for which he had bound
himself to abstinence, the more did his mind dwell upon it, and the
more did he desire its approach. It was, likewise, to be his
wedding-day, and for that reason, also, did he look eagerly forward.
But it is doubtful whether the consummation of his marriage, or the
expiration of his pledge, occupied most of his thoughts. The day so
long looked for came at last.
The day that was to make Barclay a free man, and happy in the
possession of one of the sweetest girls for a wife he had ever seen.
"I shall not see you again, until to-night, John," his sister said
to him, as he was about leaving the house, after dinner, laying her
hand as she spoke upon his arm, and looking into his face with a
quiet smile resting upon her own lovely features.--"I have promised
Helen to go over and spend the afternoon with her."
"Very well, sis'."
"Of course we shall see you pretty early,"--an arch smile playing
about her lips as she made the remark.
"O, yes, I shall be there in time," was the brother's smiling reply,
as he kissed the cheek of Alice, and then turned away and left the
house. He first proceeded to his store, where he went through,
hurriedly, some business that required his attention, occupying
something like an hour. Then he went out, and walked rapidly up one
of the principal streets of the city, and down another, as if on
some urgent errand. Without stopping anywhere, he had nearly
returned to his own store, when he was stopped by a friend, who
accosted him with--
"Hallo, John! Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"I am on my way to the store."
"Any life and death in the case?"
"No.--Only I'm to be married to-night, as you are aware; and,
consequently, am hardly able to tell whether I am on my head or my
heels."
"True enough! And besides, you are a free man today, are you not?"
"Yes, Watson, thank Heaven! that trammel will be off in half an
hour."
"You must be fond of trammels, John, seeing that you are going to
put another on so soon after getting rid of this--" the friend said,
laughing heartily at his jest.
"That will be a lighter, and far pleasanter bondage I trust, Watson,
than the one from which I am about escaping. It will be an easy yoke
compared to the galling one under which I have toiled for the last
six months. Still, I do not regret having bound myself as I did. It
was necessary to give me that self-control which I had well-nigh
lost. Now I shall be able to act like a rational man, and be
temperate from principle, and not from a mere external restraint
that made me little better than a machine."
"Your time will be up, you say, in half an hour?"
"Yes--" looking at his watch--"in ten minutes. It is later than I
thought."
"Come, then, let us go over to R--'s--it is full ten minutes' walk
from here--and take a drink to freedom and principle."
"I am ready to join you, of course," was Barclay's prompt reply, as
he drew his arm within that of his friend, and the two turned their
steps towards the drinking establishment that had been named by the
latter.
"A room, a bottle of sherry, and some cigars," said Watson, as they
entered the drinking-house, and went up to the bar.
In a few minutes after, they were alone, with wine and glasses
before them.
"Here's to freedom and principle!" said Watson, lifting his glass,
after having filled his own and Barclay's.
"And here's to the same high moral (sic) atributes which should ever
be man's distinguishing characteristics," responded Barclay, lifting
his own glass, and touching with it the brim of that held in the
hand of his friend. Both then emptied their glasses at a draught.
"Really, that is delicious!" Barclay said, smacking his lips, as the
rich flavour of the wine lingered on his palate with a sensation of
exquisite delight.
"It's a pretty fair article," was the indifferent reply of
Watson--"though I have tasted better in my time. Long abstinence has
made its flavour peculiarly pleasant. Here, let me fill your glass
again."
Without hesitating, Barclay presented his glass, which was again
filled to the brim. In the next moment it was empty. So eager was he
to get it to his lips, that he even spilled a portion of the wine in
lifting it hurriedly. Suddenly his old, and as he had thought,
extinguished desires, came back upon him, roused into vigorous
activity, like a giant awakening refreshed by a long repose. So keen
was his appetite for wine, and stimulating drinks, thus suddenly
restored, that he could no more have withstood its influence than he
could have borne up against the current of a mighty river.
"Help yourself," said his friend, ere another minute had elapsed, as
Barclay took up the bottle to fill his glass for the third time.
"Long-abstinence has no doubt made you keen."
"It certainly has, or else this is the finest article of wine that
has ever passed my lips."
'It's not the best quality by a good deal; still it is pretty fair.
But won't you try a mint-julep, or a punch, by way of variety?"
"No objection," was the brief response.
"Which will you choose?"
"I'll take a julep."
"Two juleps," said Watson to the waiter who entered immediately
afterwards.
The juleps were soon ready, each furnished with a long straw.
"Delicious!" was Barclay's low, and delighted ejaculation, as he
bent to the table, and "imbibed" through the straw a portion of the
liquid.
"Our friend R--understands his business," was Watson's brief
reply.
A silence of some moments ensued, during which a painful
consciousness of danger rushed through the mind of Barclay. But with
an effort he dismissed it. He did not intend to drink beyond the
bounds of moderation, and why should he permit his mind to be
disturbed by idle fears?
* * * * *
"It is time that brother was here," Alice said to Helen Weston, as
the two maidens sat alone, near a window in Helen's chamber, the
evening twilight falling gently and with a soothing influence.
"Yes. I expected him earlier," was the reply, in a low tone, while
Helen's bosom heaved with a new, and exquisitely pleasurable
emotion. "What can keep him?"
"He is lingering at his toilet, perhaps," Alice said, with a smile.
All was silent again for many minutes, each gentle and innocent
heart; busy with images of delight.
"It's strange that he does not come, Alice, or sister, as I must
call you," Helen remarked, in a graver tone, as the shadowy twilight
deepened until everything wore a veil of indistinctness.
"There! That must be him!" Alice said. "Hark! That is certainly his
voice! Yes--And he is coming right up to your room, as I live, as
boldly as if the house belonged to him."
While Alice was yet speaking, the door of the chamber in which they
sat was swung open with a rude hand, and her brother entered. His
face was flushed, and his whole person in disorder.
"Why, brother! what has kept--," but the sister could utter no more.
Her tongue was paralyzed, and she stood, statue-like, gazing upon
him with a look of horror. He was intoxicated! It was his
wedding-night, a portion of the company below, and the gentle,
affectionate maiden who was to become his bride, all attired and
waiting, and he had come intoxicated!
Poor Helen's bewildered senses could not at first fully comprehend
the scene. When she did realize the terrible truth, the shock was
more than she could bear.
Over the whole scene of pain, disorder, and confusion, that
transpired on that evening, we must draw a veil. Any reader of even
ordinary imagination can realize enough of the exquisite distress
which it must have brought to many hearts, without the aid of
distinct pictures. And those who cannot realize it, will be spared
the pain of its contemplation.
One week from that night, at about nine o'clock in the evening, as
old Mr. Gray was passing along one of the principal streets of the
city where the occurrences we are relating took place, a young man
staggered against him, and then fell at full length upon the
pavement, from whence he rolled into the gutter, swollen by a smart
shower that had just fallen. Too drunk to help himself, he must have
been drowned even in that insignificant stream, had there not been
help at hand.
Mr. Gray came at once to his relief, and assisted him to rise and
get upon the pavement. But now he was unable to stand. Either hurt
by the fall, or unnerved by the liquor he had taken, he was no
longer able to keep his feet. While Mr. Gray stood holding him up,
undetermined how to act, another young man, not quite so drunk as
the one he had in charge, came whooping along like an Indian.
"Hallo! Is this you, John, holding up old Mr. Gray? or is it old Mr.
Gray holding you up! [hiccup.] Blast me! If I can tell which of you
is drunk, or which sober. Let me see? hic-hic-cup. Was it the Whale
that swallowed Jonah, or Jonah the Whale? Is it old Mr.
Gray--hic-cup--that is drunk, or John Barclay?"
"John Barclay!" ejaculated the old man, in a tone of surprise and
grief. "Surely this wretched young man is not John Barclay!"
"If he is not John Barclay, then I am not--hic-cup--not Tom Watson.
He's a bird, though! aint he, old gentleman?--hic-cup--Look here,
I'll give you five dollars,--hic-cup--if you'll stop
these,--hic--these confounded hic-hic-hic-cups--There now--There's a
chance for you!--hic--blast 'em! He swore off for six months, ha!
ha! ha! And it's just,--hic--just a week to-night since the six
months were up. Hurrah for freedom and principle! Hur--hic--hurrah!"
"Thomas Watson!--"
"Don't come your preaching touch over me, mister, if you please. I'm
free Tom Watson,--hic-hic-hic-cup--I'm--hic--I'm a regular
team--whoop! John, there, you see, would drink to freedom and
principle,--hic-cup--on the--hic--day his pledge was up. But the old
fellow was--hic--too strong--hic-cup--for him. He's been drunk as a
fool ever since--hic-cup!--"
Just at that moment a cab came by which was stopped by the old man.
Young Barclay was gotten into it and driven to Mr. Gray's dwelling.
When brought to the light, he presented a sad spectacle, indeed. His
face was swollen, and every feature distorted. His coat was torn,
and all of his clothing wet and covered with mud. Too far gone to be
able to help himself, Mr. Gray had him removed to a chamber, his wet
garments taken off, and replaced by dry under-clothing. Then he was
put into a bed and left for the night. When the morning broke,
Barclay was perfectly sober, but with a mind altogether bewildered.
The room in which he found himself, and the furniture, were all
strange. He got up; and looked from the window; the houses opposite
were unfamiliar.
"Where am I? What is the meaning of all this?" he said, half-aloud,
as he turned to look for his clothes. But no garments of any kind,
not even his hat and boots, were visible.
"Strange!" he murmured, getting into bed again, and clasping his
hands tightly upon his aching and bewildered head. He had lain,
thus, for some minutes, trying to collect his scattered senses, when
the door of his chamber was opened by a servant, who brought him in
a full suit of his own clothes; not, however, those he remembered to
have worn the day previous.
As soon as the servant had withdrawn, the young man, who had felt
altogether disinclined to speak to him, hurriedly arose, and dressed
himself. On attempting to go out, he was surprised, and somewhat
angered, to find that the door of the room had been locked.
Ringing the bell with a quick jerk, he awaited, impatiently, an
answer to his summons, for the space of about a minute, when he
pulled the cord again with a stronger hand. Only a few moments more
elapsed, when the key was turned in the door, and Mr. Gray entered.
"Mr. Gray! Is it possible!" Barclay ejaculated, as the old man
stepped into the room, and closed the door after him.
"I can hardly believe it possible, John," his father's friend said,
as he turned towards him a sad, yet unreproving countenance.
"But what is the meaning of all this, Mr. Gray? Where am I? And how
came I here?"
"Sit down, John, and be calm. You are in my house. Last night I took
you from the gutter, too much intoxicated to help yourself. You
would have drowned there, in three inches of water, had not a
friendly hand been near to save you."
"Dreadful!" ejaculated the young man, striking his hand hard against
his forehead, while an expression of shame and agonizing remorse
passed over his face.
"It is, indeed, dreadful to think of, my young friend!" Mr. Gray
remarked, in a sympathizing tone. "How wretched you must be!"
"Wretched? Alas! sit, you cannot imagine the horror of this dreadful
moment. Surely I have been mad for the past few days! And enough has
occurred to drive me mad."
"So I should think, John. But that is past now, and the future is
still yours, and its bright page still unsullied by a single act of
folly."
"But the past! The dreadful past! That can never be recalled--never
be atoned for," Barclay replied, his countenance bearing the
strongest expression of anguish and remorse. "To think of all I have
lost To think how cruelly I have mocked the fondest hopes, and
crushed the purest affections--perhaps broken a loving heart by my
folly. O, sir! It will drive me mad!"
As the young man said this, he arose to his feet, and commenced
pacing the room to and fro with agitated steps. Now striking his
hands against his forehead, and now wringing them violently.
"Since that accursed hour," he resumed, after a few minutes thus
spent, "when I madly tempted myself, under the belief that I had
gained the mastery over a depraved appetite by an abstinence from
all kinds of liquor for six months, I have but a dim recollection of
events. I do, indeed, remember, with tolerable distinctness, that I
went to claim the hand of Helen Weston, according to appointment.
But from the moment I entered the house, all is to me confusion, or
a dead blank. Tell me, then, Mr. Gray,"--and the young man's voice
grew calmer,--"the effect of my miserable conduct upon her whom I
loved purely and tenderly. Let me know all. I ask no disguise."
"The effect, John, has been painful, indeed. Since that dreadful
night, she has remained in a state of partial delirium. But her
physician told me, yesterday, that all of her symptoms had become
more favourable."
"And how is her father, and friends?"
"Deeply incensed, of course, at your conduct."
"And my sister? How is Alice?"
"She keeps up with an effort. But oh, how wretched and
broken-hearted she looks! Is it not dreadful, John, to think, how,
by a single act of folly, you have lacerated the hearts that loved
you most, and imposed upon them burdens of anguish, almost too heavy
to be borne?"
"It is dreadful! dreadful! O, that I had died, before I became an
accursed instrument of evil to those I love. But what can I do, Mr.
Gray, to atone, in some degree, for the misery I have wrought?"
"You can do much, John, if you will."
"If I will, Mr. Gray?"
"Yes, John, if you will."
"There is nothing that I am not ready to do, Mr. Gray--even the
cutting off of my right hand, could it be of any avail."
"You swore off, as I believe you called it, for six months, did you
not?"
"Yes."
"Had you any desire to drink, during that time?"
"None."
"Sign a pledge of perpetual total-abstinence, and you are safe from
all future temptations. Time will doubtless heal the present painful
wounds."
"And make a slave of myself, Mr. Gray. Surely I ought to have power
enough over myself to abstain from all intoxicating drinks, without
binding myself down by a written contract."
"That is true; but, unfortunately, you have not that control over
yourself. Your only safety, then, lies in the pledge. Take that, and
you throw between yourself and danger an insurmountable barrier. You
talk about freedom; and yet are a slave to the most debasing
appetite. Get free from the influence of that eager, insatiable
desire, and you are free, indeed. The perpetual total-abstinence
pledge will be your declaration of independence. When that is taken,
you. will be free, indeed. And until it is taken, rest assured, that
none of your friends will again have confidence in you. For their
sakes,--for your sister's sake, that peace may once more be restored
to her troubled heart--for the sake of her, from whose lip you
dashed the cup of joy, sign the pledge."
"I will sign it, Mr. Gray. But name not her whom I have so deeply
wronged. I can never see Helen Weston again."
"Time heals many a wound, and closes many a breach my young friend."
"It can never heal that wound, nor close that breach," was the sad
response. "But give me a pen and ink, and some paper; and let me
write a pledge. I believe it is necessary for me to sign one."
The materials for writing were brought as desired, and Barclay wrote
and subscribed a pledge of perpetual abstinence from all that could
intoxicate.
"That danger is past," he said, with a lighter tone, as he arose
from the table at which he had been writing. "I can never pass
another such a week as that which has just elapsed."
"Now come down and take a good warm breakfast with me," Mr. Gray
said, in a cheerful voice.
"Excuse me if you please," Barclay replied. "I cannot meet your
family this morning, after what has occurred. Besides, I must see my
sister as quickly as possible, and relieve, as far as lies in my
power, her suffering heart."
"Go then, John Barclay," the old man said. "I will not, for Alice's
sake, urge you to linger a moment."
It was still early when Mr. Barclay entered his own home. He found
Alice sitting in the parlour so pale, haggard, and wretched, that
her features hardly seemed like those of his own sister. She looked
up into his face as he came in with a sad, doubting expression,
while her lips trembled. One glance, however, told her heart that a
change had taken place, and she sprang quickly towards him.
"Alice, my own dear sister!" he said, as her head sank upon his
breast. "The struggle is over. I am free once more, and free for
ever. I have just signed a pledge of total-abstinence from all that
can intoxicate--a pledge that will remain perpetually in force."
"And may our Father in Heaven help you to keep it, John," the maiden
murmured, in a low, fervent tone.
"I will die before it shall be violated," was the stern response.
One year from that time, another bridal party assembled at the
residence of Mr. Weston. Helen long since recovered from the shock
she had received, had again consented to be led to the altar, by
John Barclay, whose life had been, since he signed the pledge, of
the most unexceptionable character. Indeed, almost his only fault in
former times had been a fondness for drinking, and gay company. Not
much of boisterous mirth characterized the bridal party, for none
felt like giving way to an exuberance of feeling,--but there was,
notwithstanding few could draw a veil entirely over the past, a
rational conviction that true and permanent happiness must, and
would crown that marriage union. And thus far, it has followed it,
and must continue to follow it, for John Barclay is a man of
high-toned principle, and would as soon think of committing a
highway robbery, as violating his pledge.
THE FAILING HOPE.
"SHALL I read to you, ma?" said Emma Martin, a little girl, eleven
years of age, coming up to the side of her mother, who sat in a
musing attitude by the centre-table, upon which the servant had just
placed a light.
Mrs. Martin did not seem to hear the voice of her child; for she
moved not, nor was there any change in the fixed, dreamy expression
of her face.
"Ma," repeated the child, after waiting for a few moments, laying,
at the same time, her head gently upon her mother's shoulder.
"What, dear?" Mrs. Martin asked, in a tender voice, rousing herself
up.
"Shall I read to you, ma?" repeated the child.
"No--yes, dear, you may read for me"--the mother said, and her tones
were low, with something mournful in their expression.
"What shall I read, ma?"
"Get the Bible, dear, and read to me from that good book," replied
Mrs. Martin.
"I love to read in the Bible," Emma said, as she brought to the
centre-table that sacred volume, and commenced turning over its
pages. She then read chapter after chapter, while the mother
listened in deep attention, often lifting her heart upwards, and
breathing a silent prayer. At last Emma grew tired with reading, and
closed the book.
"It is time for you to go to bed, dear," Mrs. Martin observed, as
the little girl showed signs of weariness.
"Kiss me, ma," the child said, lifting her innocent face to that of
her mother, and receiving the token of love she asked. Then,
breathing her gentle,
"Good-night!" the affectionate girl glided off, and retired to her
chamber.
"Dear child!" Mrs. Martin murmured, as Emma left the room. "My heart
trembles when I think of you, and look into the dark and doubtful
future!"
She then leaned her head upon her hand, and sat in deep, and
evidently painful abstraction of mind. Thus she remained for a long
time, until aroused by the clock which struck the hour of ten.
With a deep sigh she arose, and commenced pacing the room backwards
and forwards, pausing every now and then to listen to the sound of
approaching footsteps, and moving on again as the sound went by.
Thus she continued to walk until nigh eleven o'clock, when some one
drew near, paused at the street door, and then opening it, came
along the passage with a firm and steady step.
Mrs. Martin stopped, trembling in spite of herself, before the
parlour door, which a moment after was swung open. One glance at the
face of the individual who entered, convinced her that her
solicitude had been unnecessary.
"Oh, James!" she said, the tears gushing from her eyes, in spite of
a strong effort to compose herself,--"I am so glad that you have
come!"
"Why are you so agitated, Emma?" her husband said, in some surprise,
looking inquiringly into Mrs. Martin's face.
"You staid out so late--and--you know I am foolish sometimes!" she
replied, leaning her head down upon his shoulder, and continuing to
weep.
A change instantly passed upon Mr. Martin's countenance, and he
stood still, for some time, his face wearing a grave thoughtful
expression, while his wife remained with her head leaning upon him.
At last he drew his arm tenderly around her, and said--
"Emma, I am a sober man."
"Do not, dear James! speak of that. I am so happy now!"
"Yes, Emma, I will speak of it now." And as he said so, he gently
seated her upon the sofa, and took his place beside her.
"Emma"--he resumed, looking her steadily in the face. "I have
resolved never again to touch the accursed cup that has so well-nigh
destroyed our peace for ever."
"Oh, James! What a mountain you have taken from my heart!" Mrs.
Martin replied, the whole expression of her face changing as
suddenly as a landscape upon which the sun shines from beneath an
obscuring cloud. "I have had nothing to trouble me but that--yet
that one trouble has seemed more than I could possibly bear."
"You shall have no more trouble, Emma. I have been for some months
under a strange delusion, it has seemed. But I am now fully awake,
and see the dangerous precipice upon which I have been standing.
This night, I have solemnly resolved that I would drink no more
spirituous liquors. Nothing stronger than wine shall again pass my
lips."
"I cannot tell you how my heart is relieved," the wife said. "The
whole of this evening I have been painfully oppressed with fear and
dark forebodings. Our dear little girl is now at that age, when her
future prospects interest me all the while. I think of them night
and day. Shall they all be marred? I have asked myself often and
often. But I could give my heart no certain answer. I need not tell
you why."
"Give yourself no more anxiety on this point, Emma," her husband
replied. "I will be a free man again. I will be to you and my dear
child all that I have ever been."
"May our Heavenly Father aid you to keep that resolution," was the
silent prayer that went up from the heart of Mrs. Martin.
The failing hope of. her bosom revived under this assurance. She
felt again as in the early years of their wedded life, when hope and
confidence, and tender affection were all in the bloom and vigour of
their first developement. The light came back to her eye, and the
smile to her lip.
It was about four months afterwards, that Mr. Martin was invited to
make one of a small party, given to a literary man, as visiter from
a neighbouring city.
"I shall not be home to dinner, Emma," he said, on leaving in the
morning.
"Why not, James?" she asked.
"I am going to dine at four, with a select party of gentlemen."
Mrs. Martin did not reply, but a cloud passed over her face, in
spite of an effort not to seem concerned.
"Don't be uneasy, Emma," her husband said, noting this change. "I
shall touch nothing but wine. I know my weakness, and shall be on my
guard."
"Do be watchful over yourself, for my sake, and for the sake of our
own dear child," Mrs. Martin replied, laying her arm tenderly upon
his shoulder.
"Have no fear, Emma," he said, and kissing the yet fair and
beautiful cheek of his wife, Mr. Martin left the house.
How long, how very long did the day seem to Mrs. Martin! The usual
hour for his return came and went, the dinner hardly tasted; and
then his wife counted the hours as they passed lingeringly away,
until the dim, grey twilight fell with a saddening influence around
her.
"He will be home soon, now," she thought. But the minutes glided
into hours, and still he did not come. The tea-table stood in the
floor until nearly nine o'clock, before Mrs. Martin sat down with
little Emma. But no food passed the mother's lips. She could not
eat. There was a strange fear about her heart--a dread of coming
evil, that chilled her feelings, and threw a dark cloud over her
spirits.
In the meantime, Martin had gone to the dinner-party, firm in his
resolution not to touch a drop of ardent spirits. But the taste of
wine had inflamed his appetite, and he drank more and more freely,
until he ceased to feel the power of his resolution, and again put
brandy to his lips, and drank with the eagerness of a worn and
thirsty traveller at a cooling brook. It was nine o'clock when the
company arose, or rather attempted to arise from the table. Not all
of them could accomplish that feat. Three, Martin among the rest,
were carried off to bed, in a state of helpless intoxication.
Hour after hour passed away, the anxiety of Mrs. Martin increasing
every moment, until the clock struck twelve.
"Why does he stay so late?" she said, rising and pacing the room
backwards and forwards. This she continued to do, pausing every now
and then to listen, for nearly an hour. Then she went to the door
and looked long and anxiously in the direction from which she
expected her husband to come. But his well-known form met not her
eager eyes, that peered so intently into the darkness and gloom of
the night. With another long-drawn sigh, she closed the door, and
re-entered the silent and lonely room. That silence was broken by
the loud and clear ringing of the clock. The hour was one! Mrs.
Martin's feelings now became too much excited for her to control
them. She sank into a chair, and wept in silent anguish of spirit.
For nearly a quarter of an hour her tears continued to flow, and
then a deep calm succeeded--a kind of mental stupor, that remained
until she was startled again into distinct consciousness by the
sound of the clock striking two.
All hope now faded from her bosom. Up to this time she had
entertained a feeble expectation that her husband might be kept away
from some other cause than the one she so dreaded; but now that prop
became only as a broken reed, to pierce her with a keener anguish.
"It is all over!" she murmured bitterly, as she again arose, and
commenced, walking to and fro with slow and measured steps.
It was fully three o'clock before that lonely, and almost
heart-broken wife and mother retired to her chamber. How cruelly had
the hope which had grown bright and buoyant in the last few months,
gaining more strength and confidence every day, been again crushed
to the earth!
For an hour longer did Mrs. Martin sit, listening in her chamber,
everything around her so hushed into oppressive silence, that the
troubled beating of her own heart, was distinctly audible. But she
waited and listened in vain. The sound of passing footsteps that now
came only at long, very long intervals, served but to arouse a
momentary gleam in her mind, to fade away again, and leave it in
deeper darkness.
Without disrobing, she now laid herself down, still listening, with
an anxiety that grew more and more intense every moment. At last,
over-wearied nature could bear up no longer, and she sunk into a
troubled sleep. When she awoke from this, it was daylight. Oh, how
weary and worn and wretched she felt! The consciousness of why she
thus lay, with her clothes unremoved, the sad remembrance of her
hours of waiting and watching through nearly the whole night, all
came up before her with painful distinctness. Who but she who has
suffered, can imagine her feelings at that bitter moment?
On descending to the parlour, she found her husband lying in a
half-stupid condition on the sofa, the close air of the room
impregnated with his breath--the sickening, disgusting breath of a
drunken man! Bruised, crushed, paralyzed affection had now to lift
itself up--the wife just ready to sink to the earth, powerless,
under the weight of an overburdening affliction, had now to nerve
herself under the impulse of duty.
"James! James!" she said, in a voice of assumed calmness--laying her
hand upon him and endeavouring to arouse him to consciousness. But
it was a long time before she could get him so fully awake as to
make him understand that it was necessary for him to go up stairs
and retire to bed. At length she succeeded in getting him into his
chamber before the servants had come down; and then into bed. Once
there, he fell off again into a profound sleep.
"Is pa sick?" asked little Emma, coming into her mother's chamber,
about an hour after, and seeing her father in bed.
"Yes, dear, your father is quite unwell!" Mrs. Martin said, in a
calm voice.
"What ails him, ma?" pursued the child.
"He is not very well, dear; but will be better soon," the mother
said, evasively.
The little girl looked into her mother's face for a few moments
unsatisfied with the answer, and unwilling to ask another question.
She felt that something was wrong, more than the simple illness of
her father.
It was near the middle of the day when Mr. Martin became fully awake
and conscious of his condition. If he had sought forgetfulness of
the past night's debauch and degradation, the sad, reproving face of
his wife, pale and languid from anxiety and watching, would too
quickly have restored the memory of his fall.
The very bitterness of his self-condemnation--the very keenness of
wounded pride irritated his feelings, and made him feel gloomy and
sullen. He felt deeply for his suffering wife--he wished most
ardently to speak to her a word of comfort, but his pride kept him
silent. At the dinner hour, he eat a few mouthfuls in silence, and
then withdrew from the table and left the house to attend to his
ordinary business. On his way to his office, he passed a hotel where
he had been in the habit of drinking. He felt so wretched--so much
in want of something to buoy up his depressed feelings, that he
entered, and calling for some wine, drank two or three glasses.
This, in a few minutes, had the desired effect, and he repaired to
his office feeling like a new man.
During the afternoon, he drank wine frequently; and when he returned
home in the evening, was a good deal under its influence; so much
so, that all the reserve he had felt in the morning was gone. He
spoke pleasantly and freely with his wife--talked of future schemes
of pleasure and success. But, alas! his pleasant words fell upon her
heart like sunshine upon ice. It was too painfully evident that he
had again been drinking--and drinking to the extent of making him
altogether unconscious of his true position. She would rather a
thousand times have seen him overwhelmed by remorse. Then there
would have been something for her hope to have leaned upon.
Day after day did Mr. Martin continue to resort to the wine-cup.
Every morning he felt so wretched that existence seemed a burden to
him, until his keen perceptions were blunted by wine. Then the
appetite for something stronger would be stimulated, and draught
after draught of brandy would follow, until when night came, he
would return home to agonize the heart of his wife with a new pang,
keener than any that had gone before.
Such a course of conduct could not be pursued without its becoming
apparent to all in the house. Mrs. Martin had, therefore, added to
the cup of sorrow, the mortification and pain of having the
servants, and her child daily conscious of his degradation. Poor
little Emma would shrink away instinctively from her father when he
would return home in the evening and endeavour to lavish upon her
his caresses. Sometimes Mr. Martin would get irritated at this.
"What are you sidling off in that way for, Emma?" he said,
half-angrily, one evening, when he was more than usually under the
influence of liquor, as Emma shrunk away from him on his coming in.
The little girl paused and looked frightened--glancing first at her
mother, and then again, timidly, at her father.
"Come along here, I say," repeated the father, seating himself, and
holding out his hands.
"Go, dear," Mrs. Martin said.
"I reckon she can come without you telling her to, madam!" her
husband responded, angrily. "Come along, I tell you!" he added in a
loud, excited tone, his face growing red with passion.
"There now! Why didn't you come when I first spoke. to you, ha?" he
said, drawing the child towards him with a quick jerk, so soon as
she came within reach of his extended hand. "Say. Why didn't you
come Tell me! Aint I your father?"
"Yes, sir," was the timid reply.
"And havn't I taught you that you must obey me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't you come, just now, when I called you?"
To this interrogation the little girl made no reply, but looked
exceedingly frightened.
"Did you hear what I said?" pursued the father, in a louder voice.
"Yes, sir."
"Then answer me, this instant! Why didn't you come when I called
you?"
"Because, I--I--I was afraid," was the timid, hesitating reply.
Something seemed to whisper to the father's mind a consciousness,
that his appearance and conduct while under the influence of liquor,
might be such as not only to frighten, but estrange his child's
affection from him; and he seemed touched by the thought, for his
manner changed, though he was still to a degree irrational.
"Go away, then, Emma! Take her away, mother," he said, in a tone
which indicated that his feelings were touched. "She don't love her
father any more, and don't care anything more about him," pushing at
the same time the child away from him.
Poor little Emma burst into tears, and shrinking to the side of her
mother, buried her face in the folds of her dress, sobbing as if her
heart were breaking.
Mrs. Martin took her little girl by the hand and led her from the
room, up to the chamber, and kissing her, told her to remain there
until the servant brought her some supper, when she could go to bed.
"I don't want any supper, ma!" she said, still sobbing.
"Don't cry, dear," Mrs. Martin said, soothingly.
"Indeed, ma, I do love father," the child said--looking up earnestly
into her mother's face, the tears still streaming over her cheeks.
"Won't you tell him so?"
"Yes, Emma, I will tell him," the mother replied.
"And won't you ask him to come up and kiss me after I'm in bed?"
"Yes, dear."
"And will he come?"
"Oh, yes; he will come and kiss you."
Martin remained with her little girl until her feelings were quieted
down, and then she descended with reluctant steps to the parlour.
There was that in the scene which had just passed, that sobered, to
a great extent, the half-intoxicated husband and father, and caused
him to feel humbled and pained at his conduct; which it was too
apparent was breaking the heart of his wife, and estranging the
affection of his child.
When Mrs. Martin re-entered the parlour, she found him sitting near
a table, with his head resting upon his hand, and his whole manner
indicating a state of painful self-consciousness. With the
instinctive perception of a woman, she saw the truth; and going at
once up to him, she laid her hand upon him, and said:
"James--Emma wants you to come up and kiss her after she gets into
bed. She says that she does love you, and she wished me to tell you
so."
Mr. Martin did not reply. There was something calm, gentle, and
affectionate, in the manner and tones of his wife--something that
melted him completely down. A choking sob followed; when he arose
hastily, and retired to his chamber. Mrs. Martin did not follow him
thither. She saw that his own reflections were doing more for him
than anything that she could do or say; and, therefore, she deemed
it the part of wisdom to let his own reflections be his companion,
and do their own work.
When Mr. Martin entered his chamber, he seated himself near the bed,
and leaned his head down upon it. He was becoming more and more
sobered every moment--more and more distinctly conscious of the true
nature of the ground he occupied. Still his mind was a good deal
confused, for the physical action of the stimulus he had taken
through the day, had not yet subsided; although there was a strong
mental counteracting cause in operation, which was gradually
subduing the effect of his potations. As he sat thus, leaning his
head upon his hand, and half-reclining upon the bed, a deep sigh, or
half-suppressed sob, caught his ear. It came from the adjoining
chamber. He remembered his child in an instant. His only child--whom
he most fondly loved. He remembered, too, her conduct, but a short
time before, and saw, with painful distinctness, that he was
estranging from himself, and bringing sorrow upon one whose gentle
nature had affected even his heart with feelings of peculiar
tenderness.
"My dear child!" he murmured, as he arose to his feet, and went
quietly into her room. She had already retired to bed, and lay with
her head almost buried beneath the clothes, as if shrinking away
with a sensation akin to fear. But she heard him enter, and
instantly rose up, saying, as she saw him approach her bed--
"O, pa, indeed I do love you!"
"And I love you, my child," Mr. Martin responded, bending over her
and kissing her forehead, cheeks, and lips, with an earnest
fondness.
"And don't you love ma, too?" inquired Emma.
"Certainly I do, my dear! Why do you ask me?"
"Because I see her crying so often--almost every day. And she seems
so troubled just before you come home, every evening. She didn't use
to be so. A good while ago, she used to be always talking about when
pa would be home; and used to dress me up every afternoon to see
you. But now she never says anything about your coming home at
night. Don't you know how we used to walk out and meet you
sometimes? We never do it now!"
This innocent appeal was like an arrow piercing him with the most
acute pain. He could not find words in which to fame a reply. Simply
kissing her again, and bidding her a tender good-night, he turned
away and left her chamber, feeling more wretched than he had ever
felt in his life.
It was about twelve years since the wife of Mr. Martin had united
her hopes and affections with his. At that time he was esteemed by
all--a strictly temperate man, although he would drink with a
friend, or at a convivial party, whenever circumstances led him to
do so. From this kind of indulgence the appetite for liquor was
formed. Two years after his marriage, Martin had become so fond of
drinking, that he took from two to three glasses every day,
regularly. Brandy at dinner-time was indispensable. The meal would
have seemed to him wanting in a principal article without it. It was
not until about five years after their marriage that Mrs. Martin was
aroused to a distinct consciousness of danger. Her husband came home
so much intoxicated as to be scarcely able to get up into his
chamber. Then she remembered, but too vividly, the slow, but sure
progress he had been making towards intemperance, during the past
two or three years, and her heart sunk trembling in her bosom with a
new and awful fear. It seemed as if she had suddenly awakened from a
delusive dream of happiness and security, to find herself standing
at the brink of a fearful precipice.
"What can I do? What shall I do?" were questions repeated over and
over again; but, alas! she could find no answer upon which her
troubled heart could repose with confidence. How could she approach
her husband upon such a subject? She felt that she could not allude
to it.
Month after month, and year after year, she watched with an anguish
of spirit that paled her cheek, and stole away the brightness from
her eye, the slow, but sure progress of the destroyer. Alas! how did
hope fail--fail--fail, until it lived in her bosom but a faint,
feeble, flickering ray. At last she ventured to remonstrate, and met
with anger and repulse. When this subsided, and her husband began to
reflect more deeply upon his course, he was humbled in spirit, and
sought to heal the wound his conduct and his words had made. Then
came promises of amendment, and Mrs. Martin fondly hoped all would
be well again. The light again came back to her heart. But it did
not long remain. Martin still permitted himself to indulge in wine,
which soon excited the desire for stronger stimulants, and he again
indulged, and again fell.
Ten times had he thus fallen, each time repenting, and each time
restoring a degree of confidence to the heart of his wife, by
promises of future abstinence. Gradually did hope continue to grow
weaker and weaker, at each relapse, until it had nearly failed.
"There is no hope," she said to herself, mournfully, as she sat in
deep thought, on the evening in which occurred the scene we have
just described. "He has tried so often, and fallen again at every
effort. There is no hope--no hope!"
It was an hour after Mr. Martin had retired to his chamber, that his
wife went up softly, and first went into Emma's room. The child was
asleep, and there was on her innocent face a quiet smile, as if
pleasant images were resting upon her mind. A soft kiss was
imprinted on her fair forehead, and then Mrs. Martin went into her
own chamber. She found that her husband had retired to bed and was
asleep.
But few hours of refreshing slumber visited the eyelids of the
almost despairing wife. Towards morning, however, she sank away into
a deep sleep. When she awoke from this, it was an hour after
daylight. Her husband was up and dressed, and sat beside the bed,
looking into her face with an expression of subdued, but calm and
tender affection.
"Emma," he said, taking her hand, as soon as she was fairly
awakened, "can you again have confidence in me, or has hope failed
altogether?"
Mrs. Martin did not reply, but looked at her husband steadily and
inquiringly.
"I understand you," he said, "you have almost, if not altogether
ceased to hope. I do not wonder at it. If I had not so often mocked
your generous confidence, I would again assure you that all will be
well. I see that what I say does not make the warm blood bound to
your face, as once it did. I will not use idle words to convince
you. But one thing I will say. I have been, for sometime past,
conscious, that it was dangerous for me to touch wine, or ale, or
anything that stimulates, as they do. They only revive an appetite
for stronger drinks, while they take away a measure of self-control.
I have, therefore, most solemnly promised myself, that I will never
again touch or taste any spirituous liquors, wine, malt, or cider.
Nor will I again attend any convivial parties, where these things
are used. Hereafter, I shall act upon the total-abstinence
principle--for only in total-abstinence, is there safety for one
like me."
There was something so solemn and earnest in the manner of her
husband, that Mrs. Martin's drooping spirits began to revive. Again
did her eye brighten, and her cheek kindle. Then came a gush of
tears attesting the power of a new impulse. The failing hope was
renewed!
And day after day, week after week, and month after month, did that
hope strengthen and gain confidence. Years have passed, since that
total-abstinence resolution was taken, and not once during the time
has Martin been tempted to violate it. Yet, is he vividly conscious,
that only in _total-abstinence_ from everything that can intoxicate
is there safety for him.
TAKING TOLL.
MR. SMITH kept a drug shop in the little village of Q--, which was
situated a few miles from Lancaster. It was his custom to visit the
latter place every week or two, in order to purchase such articles
as were needed from time to time in his business. One day, he drove
off towards Lancaster, in his wagon, in which, among other things,
was a gallon demijohn. On reaching the town, he called first at a
grocer's with the inquiry,
"Have you any common wine?"
"How common?" asked the grocer.
"About a dollar a gallon. I want it for antimonial wine."
"Yes; I have some just fit for that, and not much else, which I will
sell at a dollar."
"Very well. Give me a gallon," said Mr. Smith. The demijohn was
brought in from the wagon and filled. And then Mr. Smith drove off
to attend to other business. Among the things to be done on that
day, was to see a man who lived half a mile from Lancaster. Before
going out on this errand, Mr. Smith stopped at the house of his
particular friend, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones happened not to be in, but
Mrs. Jones was a pleasant woman, and he chatted with her for ten
minutes, or so. As he stepped into his wagon, it struck him that the
gallon demijohn was a little in his way, and so, lifting it out, he
said to Mrs. Jones,
"I wish you would take care of this until I come back."
"O! certainly," replied Mrs. Jones, "with the greatest pleasure."
And so the demijohn was left in the lady's care.
Some time afterwards Mr. Jones came in, and among the first things
that attracted his attention, was the strange demijohn.
"What is this?" was his natural inquiry.
"Something that Mr. Smith left."
"Mr. Smith from Q--?"
"Yes."
"I wonder what he has here?" said Mr. Jones, taking hold of the
demijohn. "It feels heavy."
The cork was unhesitatingly removed, and the mouth of the vessel
brought in contact with the smelling organ of Mr. Jones.
"Wine, as I live!" fell from his lips. "Bring me a glass."
"O! no, Mr. Jones. I wouldn't touch his wine," said Mrs. Jones.
"Bring me a glass. Do you think I'm going to let a gallon of wine
pass my way without exacting toll? No--no! Bring me a glass."
The glass, a half-pint tumbler, was produced, and nearly filled with
the execrable stuff--as guiltless of grape juice as a dyer's
vat--which was poured down the throat of Mr. Jones.
"Pretty fair wine, that; only a little rough," said Mr. Jones,
smacking his lips.
"It's a shame!" remarked Mrs. Jones, warmly, "for you to do so."
"I only took toll," said the husband, laughing. "No harm in that,
I'm sure."
"Rather heavy toll, it strikes me," replied Mrs. Jones.
Meantime, Mr. Smith, having completed most of his business for that
day, stopped at a store where he wished two or three articles put
up. While these were in preparation he said to the keeper of the
store,
"I wish you would let your lad Tom step over for me to Mr. Jones's.
I left a demijohn of common wine there, which I bought for the
purpose of making it into antimonial wine.
"O! certainly," replied the store-keeper. "Here, Tom!" and he called
for his boy.
Tom came, and the store-keeper said to him,
"Run over to Mr. Jones's and get a jug of antimonial wine which Mr.
Smith left there. Go quickly, for Mr. Smith is in a hurry."
"Yes, sir," replied the lad, and away he ran.
After Mr. Jones had disposed of his half a pint of wine, he thought
his stomach had rather a curious sensation, which is not much to be
wondered at, considering the stuff with which he had burdened it.
"I wonder if that really is wine?" said he, turning from the window
at which he had seated himself, and taking up tie demijohn again.
The cork was removed, and his nose applied to the mouth of the huge
bottle.
"Yes, it's wine; but I'll vow it's not much to brag of." And the
cork was once more replaced.
Just then came a knock at the door. Mrs. Jones opened it, and the
store-keeper's lad appeared.
"Mr. Smith says, please let me have the jug of antimonial wine he
left here."
"Antimonial wine!" exclaimed Mr. Jones, his chin falling, and a
paleness instantly overspread his face.
"Yes, sir," said the lad.
"Antimonial wine!" fell again, but huskily, from the quivering lips
of Mr. Jones. "Send for the doctor, Kitty, quick! Oh! How sick I
feel! Send for the doctor, or I'll be a dead man in half an hour!"
"Antimonial wine! Dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, now as pale and
frightened as her husband. "Do you feel sick?"
"O! yes. As sick as death!" And the appearance of Mr. Jones by no
means belied his words. "Send for the doctor instantly, or it may be
too late."
Mrs. Jones ran first in one direction and then in another, and
finally, after telling the boy to run for the doctor, called Jane,
her single domestic, and started her on the same errand.
Off sprung Jane at a speed outstripping that of John Gilpin.
Fortunately, the doctor was in his office, and he came with all the
rapidity a proper regard to the dignity of his profession would
permit, armed with a stomach pump and a dozen antidotes. On arriving
at the house of Mr. Jones he found the sufferer lying upon a bed,
ghastly pale, and retching terribly.
"O! doctor! I'm afraid it's all over with me!" gasped the patient.
"How did it happen? what have you taken?" inquired the doctor,
eagerly.
"I took, by mistake, nearly a pint of antimonial wine."
"Then it must be removed instantly," said the doctor; and down the
sick man's throat went one end of a long, flexible, India rubber
tube, and pump! pump! pump! went the doctor's hand at the other end.
The result was very palpable. About a pint of reddish fluid,
strongly smelling of wine, came up, after which the instrument was
withdrawn.
"There," said the doctor, "I guess that will do. Now let me give you
an antidote." And a nauseous dose of something or other was mixed up
and poured down, to take the place of what had just been removed.
"Do you feel any better now?" inquired the doctor, as he sat holding
the pulse of the sick man, and scanning, with a professional eye,
his pale face, that was covered with a clammy perspiration.
"A little," was the faint reply. "Do you think all danger is past?"
"Yes, I think so. The antidote I have given you will neutralize the
effect of the drug, as far as it has passed into the system."
"I feel as weak as a rag," said the patient. "I am sure I could not
bear my own weight. What a powerful effect it had!"
"Don't think of it," returned the doctor. "Compose yourself. There
is now no danger to be apprehended whatever."
The wild flight of Jane through the street, and the hurried
movements of the doctor, did not fail to attract attention. Inquiry
followed, and it soon became noised about that Mr. Jones had taken
poison.
Mr. Smith was just stepping into his wagon, when a man came up and
said to him,
"Have you heard the news?"
"What news?"
"Mr. Jones has taken poison!"
"What?"
"Poison!"
"Who! Mr. Jones?"
"Yes. And they say he cannot live."
"Dreadful! I must see him." And without waiting for further
information, Mr. Smith spoke to his horse and rode off at a gallop
for the residence of his friend. Mrs. Jones met him at the door,
looking very anxious.
"How is he?" inquired Mr. Smith, in a serious voice.
"A little better, I thank you. The doctor has taken it all out of
his stomach. Will you walk up?"
Mr. Smith ascended to the chamber where lay Mr. Jones, looking as
white as a sheet. The doctor was still by his side.
"Ah! my friend," said the sick man, in a feeble voice, as Mr. Smith
took his hand, "that antimonial wine of yours has nearly been the
death of me."
"What antimonial wine?" inquired Mr. Smith, not understanding his
friend.
"The wine you left here in the gallon demijohn."
"That wasn't antimonial wine!"
"It was not?" fell from the lips of both Mr. and Mrs. Jones.
"Why, no! It was only wine that I had bought for the purpose of
making antimonial wine."
Mr. Jones rose up in bed.
"Not antimonial wine?"
"No!"
"Why the boy said it was."
"Then he didn't know any thing about it. It was nothing but some
common wine which I had bought."
Mr. Jones took a long breath. The doctor arose from the bedside, and
Mr. Jones exclaimed,
"Well, I never!"
Then came a grave silence, in which one looked at the other,
doubtingly.
"Good-day;" said the doctor, and went down stairs.
"So you have been drinking my wine, it seems," laughed Mr. Smith, as
soon as the man with the stomach pump had retired.
"I only took a little toll," said Mr. Jones, back into whose pale
face the color was beginning to come, and through whose almost
paralyzed nerves was again flowing from the brain a healthy
influence. "But don't say any thing about it! Don't for the world!"
"I won't, on one condition," said Mr. Smith, whose words were
scarcely coherent, so strongly was he convulsed with laughter.
"What is that?"
"You must become a teetotaller."
"Can't do that," replied Mr. Jones.
"Give me a day or two to make up my mind."
"Very well. And now, good bye; the sun is nearly down, and it will
be night before I get home."
And Mr. Smith shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Jones and hurriedly
retired, trying, but in vain, to leave the house in a grave and
dignified manner. Long before Mr. Jones had made up his mind to join
the teetotallers, the story of his taking toll was all over the
town, and for the next two or three months he had his own time of
it. After that, it became an old story.
"THOU ART THE MAN!"
"HOW can you reconcile it to your conscience to continue in your
present business, Mr. Muddler?" asked a venerable clergyman of a
tavern-keeper, as the two walked home from the funeral of a young
man who had died suddenly.
"I find no difficulty on that score," replied the tavern-keeper, in
a confident tone: "My business is as necessary to the public as that
of any other man."
"That branch of it, which regards the comfort and accommodation of
travellers, I will grant to be necessary. But there is another
portion of it which, you must pardon me for saying, is not only
uncalled for by the real wants of the community, but highly
detrimental to health and good morals."
"And pray, Mr. Mildman, to what portion of my business do you
allude?"
"I allude to that part of it which embraces the sale of intoxicating
drinks."
"Indeed! the very best part of my business. But, certainly, you do
not pretend to say that I am to be held accountable for the
unavoidable excesses which sometimes grow out of the use of liquors
as a beverage?"
"I certainly must say, that, in my opinions a very large share of
the responsibility rests upon your shoulders. You not only make it a
business to sell liquors, but you use every device in your power to
induce men to come and drink them. You invent new compounds with new
and attractive names, in order to induce the indifferent or the
lovers of variety, to frequent your bar-room. In this way, you too
often draw the weak into an excess of self-indulgence, that ends,
alas! in drunkenness and final ruin of body and soul. You are not
only responsible for all this, Mr. Muddler, but you bear the weight
of a fearful responsibility!"
"I cannot see the subject in that light, Mr. Mildman," the
tavern-keeper said, rather gravely. "Mine is an honest and
honourable calling, and it is my duty to my family and to society,
to follow it with diligence and a spirit of enterprise."
"May I ask you a plain question, Mr. Muddler?"
"Oh yes, certainly! as many as you please."
"Can that calling be an honest and honourable one which takes
sustenance from the community, and gives back nothing in return?"
"I do not know that I understand the nature of your question, Mr.
Mildman."
"Consider then society as a man in a larger form, as it really is.
In this great body, as in the lesser body of man, there are various
functions of use and a reciprocity between the whole. Each function
receives a portion of life from the others, and gives back its own
proper share for the good of the whole. The hand does not act for
itself alone--receiving strength and selfishly appropriating it
without returning its quota of good to the general system. And so of
the heart, and lungs, and every other organ in the whole body.
Reverse the order--and how soon is the entire system diseased! Now,
does that member of the great body of the people act honestly and
honourably, who regularly receives his portion of good from the
general social system, and gives nothing back in return?"
To this the landlord made no reply, and Mr. Mildman continued--
"But there is still a stronger view to be taken. Suppose a member of
the human body is diseased--a limb, for instance, in a partial state
of mortification. Here there is a reception of life from the whole
system into that limb, and a constant giving back of disease that
gradually pervades the entire body; and, unless that body possesses
extraordinary vital energy, in the end destroys it. In like manner,
if in the larger body there be one member who takes his share of
life from the whole, and gives back nothing but a poisonous
principle, whose effect is disease and death, surely he cannot be
called a good member--nor honest, nor honourable."
"And pray, Mr. Mildman," asked the tavern-keeper, with warmth,
"where will you find, in society, such an individual as you
describe?"
The minister paused at this question, and looked his companion
steadily in the face. Then raising his long, thin finger to give
force to his remark, he said with deep emphasis--
_"Thou art the man!"_
"Me, Mr. Mildman! me!" exclaimed the tavern-keeper, in surprise and
displeasure. "You surely cannot be in earnest."
"I utter but a solemn truth, Mr. Muddler: such is your position in
society! You receive food, and clothing, and comforts and luxuries
of various kinds for yourself and family from the social body, and
what do you give back for all these? A poison to steal away the
health and happiness of that social body. You are far worse than a
perfectly dead member--you exist upon the great body as a moral
gangrene. Reflect calmly upon this subject. Go home, and in the
silence of your own chamber, enter into unimpassioned and solemn
communion with your heart. Be honest with yourself. Exclude the bias
of selfish feelings and selfish interests, and honestly define to
yourself your true position.'
"But, Mr. Mildman--"
The two men had paused nearly in front of Mr. Muddler's splendid
establishment, and were standing there when the tavern-keeper
commenced a reply to the minister's last remarks. He had uttered but
the first word or two, when he was interrupted by a pale,
thinly-dressed female, who held a little girl by the hand. She came
up before him and looked him steadily in the face for a moment or
two.
"Mr. Muddler, I believe," she said.
"Yes, madam, that is my name," was his reply.
"I have come, Mr. Muddler," the woman then said, with an effort to
smile and affect a polite air, "to thank you for a present I
received last night."
"Thank me, madam! There certainly must be some mistake. I never made
you a present. Indeed, I have not the pleasure of your
acquaintance."
"You said your name was Muddler, I believe?"
"Yes, madam, as I told you before, that is my name."
"Then you are the man. You made my little girl, here a present also,
and we have both come with our thanks."
"You deal in riddles, madam, Speak out plainly."
"As I said before," the woman replied, with bitter irony in her
tones, "I have come with my little girl to thank you for the present
we received last night;--a present of wretchedness and abuse."
"I am still as far from understanding you as ever," the
tavern-keeper said--I never abused you, madam. I do not even know
you."
"But you know my husband, sir! You have enticed him to your bar, and
for his money have given him a poison that has changed him from one
of the best and kindest of men, into a demon. To you, then, I owe
all the wretchedness I have suffered, and the brutal treatment I
shared with my helpless children last night. It is for this that I
have come to thank you."
"Surely, madam, you must be beside yourself. I have nothing to do
with your husband."
"Nothing to do with him!" the woman exclaimed, in an excited tone.
"Would to heaven that it were so! Before you opened your accursed
gin palace, he was a sober man, and the best and kindest of
husbands--but, enticed by you, your advertisement and display of
fancy drinks, he was tempted within the charmed circle of your
bar-room. From that moment began his downfall; and now he is lost to
self-control--lost to feeling--lost to humanity!"
As the woman said this, she burst into tears, and then turned and
walked slowly away.
"To that painful illustration of the truth of what I have said," the
minister remarked, as the two stood once more alone, "I have nothing
to add. May the lesson sink deep into your heart. Between you and
that woman's husband existed a regular business transaction. Did it
result in a mutual benefit? Answer that question to your own
conscience."
How the tavern-keeper answered it, we know not. But if he received
no benefit from the double lesson, we trust that others may; and in
the hope that the practical truth we have endeavoured briefly to
illustrate, will fall somewhere upon good ground, we cast it forth
for the benefit of our fellow-men.
THE TOUCHING REPROOF.
"HERE, Jane," said a father to his little girl not over eleven years
of age, "go over to the shop and buy me a pint of brandy."
At the same time he handed her a quarter of a dollar. The child took
the money and the bottle, and as she did so, looked her father in
the face with an earnest, sad expression. But he did not seem to
observe it, although he perceived it, and felt it; for he understood
its meaning. The little girl lingered, as if reluctant, from some
reason, to go on her errand.
"Did you hear what I said?" the father asked, angrily, and with a
frowning brow, as he observed this.
Jane glided from the room and went over to the shop, hiding, as she
passed through the street, the bottle under her apron. There she
obtained the liquor, and returned with it in a few minutes. As she
reached the bottle to her father, she looked at him again with the
same sad, earnest look, which he observed. It annoyed and angered
him.
"What do you mean by looking at me in that way? Ha!" he said, in a
loud, angry tone.
Jane shrunk away, and passed into the next room, where her mother
lay sick. She had been sick for some time, and as they were poor,
and her husband given to drink, she had sorrow and privation added
to her bodily sufferings. As her little girl came in, she went up to
the side of her bed, and, bending over it, leaned her head upon her
hand. She did not make any remark, nor did her mother speak to her,
until she observed the tears trickling through her fingers.
"What is the matter, my dear?" she then asked, tenderly.
The little girl raised her head, endeavouring to dry up her tears as
she did so.
"I feel so bad, mother," she replied.
"And why do you feel bad, my child?"
"Oh, I always feel so bad when father sends me over to the shop for
brandy; and I had to go just now. I wanted to ask him to buy you
some nice grapes and oranges with the quarter of a dollar--they
would taste so good to you--but he seemed to know what I was going
to say, and looked at me so cross that I was afraid to speak. I wish
he would not drink any more brandy. It makes him cross; and then how
many nice things he might buy for you with the money it takes for
liquor."
The poor mother had no words of comfort to offer her little girl,
older in thought than in years; for no comfort did she herself feel
in view of the circumstances that troubled her child. She only
said--aying her hand upon the child's head--
"Try and not think about it, my dear; it only troubles you, and your
trouble cannot make it any better."
But Jane could not help thinking about it, try as hard as she would.
She went to a Sabbath school, in which a Temperance society had been
formed, and every Sabbath she heard the subject of intemperance
discussed, and its dreadful consequences detailed. But more than all
this, she had the daily experience of a drunkard's child. In this
experience, how much of heart-touching misery was involved!--how
much of privation--how much of the anguish of a bruised spirit. Who
can know the weight that lies, like a heavy burden, upon the heart
of a drunkard's child! None but the child--for language is powerless
to convey it.
On the next morning, the father of little Jane went away to his
work, and she was left alone with her mother and her younger sister.
They were very poor, and could not afford to employ any one to do
the house-work, and so, young as she was, while her mother was sick,
Jane had everything to do:--the cooking, and cleaning, and even the
washing and ironing--a hard task, indeed, for her little hands. But
she never murmured--never seemed to think that she was overburdened;
How cheerfully would all have been done, if her father's smiles had
only fallen like sunshine upon her heart! But that face, into which
her eyes looked so often and so anxiously, was ever hid in
clouds--clouds arising from the consciousness that he was abusing
his family while seeking his own base gratification, and from
perceiving the evidences of his evil works stamped on all things
around him.
As Jane passed frequently through her mother's room during the
morning, pausing almost every time to ask if she wanted anything;
she saw, too plainly, that she was not as well as on the day
before--that she had a high fever, indicated to her by her hot skin
and constant request for cool water.
"I wish I had an orange," the poor woman said, as Jane came up to
her bed-side, for the twentieth time, "it would taste so good to
me."
She had been thinking about an orange all the morning; and
notwithstanding her effort to drive the thought from her mind, the
form of an orange would ever picture itself before her, and its
grateful flavour ever seem about to thrill upon her taste. At last
she uttered her wish--not so much with the hope of having it
gratified, as from an involuntary impulse to speak out her desire.
There was not a single cent in the house, for the father rarely
trusted his wife with money--he could not confide in her judicious
expenditure of it!
"Let me go and buy you an orange, mother," Jane said; "they have
oranges at the shop."
"I have no change, my dear; and if I had, I should not think it
right to spend four or five cents for an orange, when we have so
little. Get me a cool drink of water; that will do now."
Jane brought the poor sufferer a glass of cool water, and she drank
it off eagerly. Then she lay back upon her pillow with a sigh, and
her little girl went out to attend to the household duties that
devolved upon her. But all the while Jane thought of the orange, and
of how she should get it for her mother.
When her father came home to dinner, he looked crosser than he did
in the morning. He sat down to the table and eat his dinner in moody
silence, and then arose to depart, without so much as asking after
his sick wife, or going into her chamber. As he moved towards the
door, his hat already on his head, Jane went up to him, and looking
timidly in his face, said, with a hesitating voice--
"Mother wants an orange so bad. Won't you give me some money to buy
her one?"
"No, I will not! Your mother had better be thinking about something
else than wasting money for oranges!" was the angry reply, as the
father passed out, and shut the door hard after him.
Jane stood for a moment, frightened at the angry vehemence of her
father, and then burst into tears. She said nothing to her mother of
what had passed, but after the agitation of her mind had somewhat
subsided, began to cast about in her thoughts for some plan by which
she might obtain an orange. At last it occurred to her, that at the
shop where she got liquor for her father, they bought rags and old
iron.
"How much do you give a pound for rags?" she asked, in a minute or
two after the idea had occurred to her, standing at the counter of
the shop.
"Three cents a pound," was the reply.
"How much for old iron?"
"A cent a pound."
"What's the price of them oranges?"
"Four cents apiece."
With this information, Jane hurried back. After she had cleared away
the dinner-table, she went down into the cellar and looked up all
the old bits of iron that she could find. Then she searched the
yard, and found some eight or ten rusty nails, an old bolt, and a
broken hinge. These she laid away in a little nook in the cellar.
Afterwards she gathered together all the old rags that she could
find about the house, and in the cellar, and laid them with her old
iron. But she saw plainly enough that her iron would not weigh over
two pounds, nor her rags over a quarter of a pound. If time would
have permitted, she would have gone into the street to look for old
iron, but this she could not do; and disappointed at not being able
to get the orange for her mother, she went about her work during the
afternoon with sad and desponding thoughts and feelings.
It was summer time, and her father came home from his work before it
was dark.
"Go and get me a pint of brandy," he said to Jane, in a tone that
sounded harsh and angry to the child, handing her at the same time a
quarter of a dollar. Since the day before he had taken a pint of
brandy, and none but the best would suit him.
She took the money and the bottle, and went over to the shop.
Wistfully she looked at the tempting oranges in the window, as she
gave the money for the liquor,--and thought how glad her poor mother
would be to have one.
As she was hurrying back, she saw a thick rusty iron ring lying in
the street: she picked it up, and kept on her way. It felt heavy,
and her heart bounded with the thought that now she could buy the
orange for her mother. The piece of old iron was dropped in the
yard, as she passed through. After her father had taken a dram, he
sat down to his supper. While he was eating it, Jane went into the
cellar and brought out into the yard her little treasure of scrap
iron. As she passed backwards and forwards before the door facing
which her father sat, he observed her, and felt a sudden curiosity
to know what she was doing. He went softly to the window, and as he
did so, he saw her gathering the iron, which she had placed in a
little pile, into her apron. Then she rose up quickly, and passed
out of the yard-gate into the street.
The father went back to his supper, but his appetite was gone. There
was that in the act of his child, simple as it was, that moved his
feelings, in spite of himself. All at once he thought of the orange
she had asked for her mother; and he felt a conviction that it was
to buy an orange that Jane was now going to sell the iron she had
evidently been collecting since dinner-time.
"How selfish and wicked I am!" he said to himself, almost
involuntarily.
In a few minutes Jane returned, and with her hand under her apron,
passed through the room where he sat into her mother's chamber. An
impulse, almost irresistible, caused him to follow her in a few
moments after.
"It is so grateful!" he heard his wife say, as he opened the door.
On entering her chamber, he found her sitting up in bed eating the
orange, while little Jane stood by her looking into her face with an
air of subdued, yet heartfelt gratification. All this he saw at a
glance, yet did not seem to see, for he pretended to be searching
for something, which, apparently obtained, he left the room and the
house, with feelings of acute pain and self-upbraidings.
"Come, let us go and see these cold-water men," said a companion,
whom he met a few steps from his own door. "They are carrying all
the world before them."
"Very well, come along."
And the two men bent their steps towards Temperance Hall.
When little Jane's father turned from the door of that place, his
name was signed to the pledge, and his heart fixed to abide by it.
On his way home, he saw some grapes in a window,--he bought some of
them, and a couple of oranges and lemons. When he came home,
he--went into his wife's chamber, and opening the paper that
contained the first fruits of his sincere repentance, laid them
before her, and said, with tenderness, while the moisture dimmed his
eyes--
"I thought these would taste good to you, Mary, and so I bought
them."
"O, William!" and the poor wife started, and looked up into her
husband's face with an expression of surprise and trembling hope.
"Mary,"--and he took her hand, tenderly--"I have signed the pledge
to-night, and I will keep it, by the help of Heaven!"
The sick wife raised herself up quickly, and bent over towards her
husband, eagerly extending her hands. Then, as he drew his arm
around her, she let her head fall upon his bosom, with an emotion of
delight, such as had not moved over the surface of her stricken
heart for years.
The pledge taken was the total-abstinence pledge, and it has never
been violated by him, and what is better, we are confident never
will. How much of human hope and happiness is involved in that
simple pledge!
THE TEMPERANCE SONG.
"DEAR father," said Mary Edwards, "don't go out this evening!" and
the young girl, who had scarcely numbered fourteen years, laid her
hand upon the arm of her parent.
But Mr. Edwards shook her off impatiently, muttering, as he did so,
"Can't I go where I please?"
"O! yes, father!" urged Mary, drawing up to him again,
notwithstanding her repulse. "But there is going to be a storm, and
I wouldn't go out."
"Storm! Nonsense! That's only your pretence. But I'll be home
soon--long before the rain, if it comes at all."
And, saying this, Mr. Edwards turned from his daughter and left the
house. As soon as she was alone, Mary sat down and commenced
weeping. There had been sad changes since she was ten years old. In
that time, her father had fallen into habits of intemperance, and
not only wasted his substance, but abused his family; and, sadder
still, her mother had died broken-hearted, leaving her alone in the
world with a drunken father.
The young girl's trials, under these painful circumstances, were
great. Night after night her father would come home intoxicated, and
it was so rare a thing for her to get a kind word from him, that a
tone of affection from his lips would move her instantly to tears.
Daily the work of declension went on. Drunkenness led to idleness,
and gradually Mr. Edwards and his child sunk lower and lower in the
scale of comfort. The pleasant home where they had lived for years
was. given up, and in small, poorly furnished rooms, in a narrow
street, they hid themselves from observation. After this change, Mr.
Edwards moved along his downward way, more rapidly; earning less and
drinking more.
Mary grew old fast. Under severe trials and afflictions, her mind
rapidly matured; and her affection for her father, grew stronger and
stronger, as she realized more and more fully the dreadful nature
and ultimate tendency of the infatuation by which he was led.
At last, in the anguish of her concern, she ventured upon
remonstrance. This brought only angry repulse, adding bitterness to
her cup of sorrow. The appearance of a storm, on the evening to
which we have alluded, gave Mary an excuse for urging her father not
to go out. How her remonstrance was received has been seen. While
the poor girl sat weeping, the distant rolling of thunder indicated
the approach of the storm to which she had referred. But she cared
little for it now. Her father had gone out. She had spoken of it
only with the hope that he might have been induced to remain with
her. Now that he was away, the agitation within was too great to
leave any concern for the turbulent elements without.
On leaving his home, Mr. Edwards, who had not taken any liquor for
three or four hours, and whose appetite was sharp for the accustomed
stimulus, walked quickly in the direction of a drinking-house where
he usually spent his evenings. On entering, he found that there was
a little commotion in the bar-room. A certain individual, not over
friendly to landlords, had intruded himself; and, his character
being known, the inmates were disposed to have a little sport with
him.
"Come now, old fellow!" said one, just as Edwards came in,--"mount
this table and make us a first rate temperance speech."
"Do; and I'll treat you to the stiffest glass of whisky toddy the
landlord can mix," added another. "Or perhaps you'd like a mint
julep or gin cocktail better? Any thing you please. Make the speech
and call for the liquor. I'll stand the treat."
"What d'ye say, landlord? Shall he make the speech?" said another,
who was eager for sport.
"Please yourselves," replied the landlord, "and you'll please me."
"Very well. Now for the speech, old fellow! Here! mount this table."
And two or three of the most forward took hold of his arms.
"I'm not just in the humor for making a speech," said the temperance
man, "but, if it will please you as well, I'll sing you a song."
"Give us a song then. Any thing to accommodate. But come, let's
liquor first."
"No!" said the other firmly, "I must sing the song first, if I sing
it at all."
"Don't you think your pipes will be clearer for a little drink of
some kind or other."
"Perhaps they would," was replied. "So, provided you have no
objection, I'll take a glass of cold water--if such a thing is known
in this place."
The glass of water was presented, and then the man, who was somewhat
advanced in years, prepared to give the promised song. All stood
listening attentively, Edwards among the rest. The voice of the old
man was low and tremulous, yet every word was uttered distinctly,
and with a pathos which showed that the meaning was felt. The
following well-known temperance song was the one that he sung; and
while his voice filled the bar-room every other sound was hushed.
"Where are the friends that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago--long, long ago?
Where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer,
Long, long ago--long ago!
Friends that I loved in the grave are laid low,
Hopes that I cherished are fled from me now,
I am degraded, for rum was my foe
Long, long ago--long ago!
"Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head,
Long, long ago--long, long ago.
Oh! how I wept when I knew she was dead!
Long, long ago--long ago.
She was an angel! my love and my guide!
Vainly to save me from ruin she tried;
Poor, broken-hearted! 'twas well that she died
Long, long ago--long ago.
"Let me look back on the days of my youth,
Long, long ago--long, long ago,
I was no stranger to virtue and truth,
Long, long ago--long ago.
Oh! for the hopes that were pure as the day!
Oh! for the joys that were purer than they!
Oh! for the hours that I've squandered away
Long, long ago--long ago."
The silence that pervaded the room when the old man's voice died, or
might rather be said, sobbed away, was as the silence of death. His
own heart was touched, for he wiped his eyes, from which tears had
started. Pausing scarcely a moment, he moved slowly from the room,
and left his audience to their own reflections. There was not one of
them who was not more or less affected; but the deepest impression
had been made on the heart of Edwards. The song seemed as if it had
been made for him. The second verse, particularly, went thrilling to
the very centre of his feelings.
"Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head!"
How suddenly arose before him the sorrow-stricken form of the wife
of his youth at these words! and when the old man's voice faltered
on the line--
"Poor, broken-hearted! 'twas well that she died!"
the anguish of his spirit was so great, that he only kept himself
from sobbing aloud by a strong effort at self-control. Ere the spell
was broken, or a word uttered by any one, he arose and left the
house.
For many minutes after her father's departure, Mary sat weeping
bitterly. She felt hopeless and deserted. Tenderly did she love her
parent; but this love was only a source of the keenest anguish, for
she saw him swiftly passing along the road to destruction without
the power to save him.
Grief wastes itself by its own violence. So it was in this instance.
The tears of Mary were at length dried; her sobs were hushed, and
she was about rising from her chair, when a blinding flash of
lightning glared into the room, followed instantly by a deafening
jar of thunder.
"Oh, if father were home!" she murmured, clasping her hands
together.
Even while she stood in this attitude, the door opened quietly, and
Mr. Edwards entered.
"I thought you would be afraid, Mary; and so I came home," said he
in a kind voice.
Mary looked at him with surprise. This was soon changed to joy as
she perceived that he was perfectly sober.
"Oh, father!" she sobbed, unable to control her feelings, and
leaning her face against his breast as she spoke--"if you would
never go away!"
Tenderly the father drew his arm around his weeping child, and
kissed her pure forehead.
"Mary," said he, as calmly as he could speak, "for your mother's
sake--" but he could not finish the sentence. His voice quivered,
and became inarticulate.
Solemnly, in the silence of his own heart, did the father, as he
stood thus with his child in his arms, repeat the vows he had
already taken. And he kept his vows.
Wonderful is the power of music! It is the heart's own language, and
speaks to it in a voice of irresistible persuasion. It is a good
gift from heaven, and should ever be used in a good cause.
THE DISTILLER'S DREAM.
FROM the time Mr. Andrew Grim opened a low grogshop near the
Washington Market, until, as a wealthy distiller, he counted himself
worth a hundred thousand dollars, every thing had gone on smoothly;
and now he might be seen among the money-lords of the day, as
self-complacent as any. He had stock, houses, and lands: and, in his
mind, these made up life's greatest good. And had he not obtained
them in honest trade? Were they not the reward of persevering
industry? Mr. Grim felt proud of the fact, that he was the architect
of his own fortunes. "How many had started in life side by side with
him; and yet scarcely one in ten of them had risen above the common
level."
Thoughts like these often occupied the mind of Mr. Grim. Such were
his thoughts as he sat in his luxurious parlor, one bleak December
evening, surrounded by every external comfort his heart could
desire, when a child not over seven or eight years of age was
brought into the room by a servant, who said, as he entered--
"Here's a little girl that says she wants to see you."
Mr. Grim, turned, and looked for a moment or two at the visiter. She
was the child of poor parents; that was evident from her coarse and
meager garments.
"Do you wish to see me?" he inquired, in a voice that was meant to
be repulsive.
"Yes, sir," timidly answered the child.
"Well, what do you want?"
"My mother wants you."
"Your mother! Who's your mother?"
"Mrs. Dyer."
The manner of Mr. Grim changed instantly; and he said--
"Indeed! What does your mother want?"
"Father is sick; and mother says he will die."
"What ails your father?"
"I don't know. But he's been sick ever since yesterday; and he
screams out so, and frightens us all."
"Where does your mother live?"
The child gave the street and number.
Mr. Grim walked about the room uneasily for some time.
"Didn't your mother say what she wanted with me?" he asked again,
pausing before the little girl, whose eyes had been following all
his movements.
"No, sir. But she cried when she told me to go for you."
Mr. Grim moved about the room again for some time. Then stopping
suddenly, he said--
"Go home and tell your mother I'll be there in a little while."
The child retired from the room, and Mr. Grim resumed his
perambulations, his eyes upon the floor, and a shadow resting on his
countenance. After the lapse of nearly half an hour he went into the
hall, and drawing on a warm overcoat, started forth in obedience to
what was evidently an unwelcome summons--for he muttered to himself
as he descended to the pavement--
"I wish people would take care of what they get, and learn to depend
on themselves."
Mr. Grim took an omnibus and rode as far as Canal street. Down Canal
street he walked to West Broadway, and along West Broadway for a
couple of blocks, when he stopped before an old brick house that
looked as if it had seen service for at least a hundred years, and
examined the number.
"This is the place, I suppose," said he, fretfully. And he stepped
back and looked up at the house. Then he approached the door, and
searched for a bell or knocker; but of neither of these appendages
could the dwelling boast. First, he rapped with his knuckles, then
with his cane. But no one responded to the summons. He looked up and
saw lights in the window. So he knocked again, and louder. After
waiting several minutes, and not being admitted, Mr. Grim tried the
door and found it unfastened; but the passage into which he stepped
was dark as midnight. After knocking on the floor loudly with his
cane, a door opened above, a gleam of light fell on an old stairway,
and a rough voice called out,
"Who's there?"
"Does Mr. Dyer live here?"
"Be sure he does!" was roughly answered.
"Will you be kind enough to show me his room?"
"You'll find it in the third story back," said the voice,
impatiently. The door was shut again, and all was dark as before.
Mr. Grim stood irresolute for a few moments, and then commenced
groping his way up stairs, slowly and cautiously. Just as he gained
the landing on the second flight, a stifled scream was heard in one
of the rooms on the third floor, followed by a sudden movement, as
if two persons were struggling in a murderous conflict. He stopped
and listened, while a chill went over him. A long shuddering groan
followed, and then all was still again. Mr. Grim was about
retreating, when a door opened, and the child who had called for him
came out with a candle in her hand. The light fell upon his form and
the child saw him.
"Oh! mother! mother!" she cried, "Mr. Grim is here!"'
Instantly the form of a woman was seen in the door. Her look was
wild and distressed, and her hair, which had become loosened from
the comb, lay in heavy masses upon her shoulders.
"For heaven's sake, Mary! what is the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Grim,
as he approached the woman.
"The matter!" She looked sternly at the visiter. "Come and see!" And
she pointed into the room.
A cry of unutterable distress broke upon the air, and the woman
sprang back quickly into the room. Mr. Grim hurried after her. By
the feeble light of a single poor candle, he saw a half-clothed man
crouching fearfully in a corner of the room, with his hands raised
in the attitude of defence.
"Keep off! Keep off, I say!" he cried, despairingly. "Oh! oh! oh!
It's on me, Mary! Mary! Oh! Lord, help me! help me!"
And as these broken sentences fell from his lips, he shrunk closer
and closer into the corner, and then fell forward, writhing upon the
floor. By this time, his wife was bending down over him, and with
her assuring voice she soon succeeded in quieting him.
"They've all gone now, Henry," said she, in a tone of cheerful
confidence, assumed at what an effort! "I've driven them away. Come!
lie down upon the bed."
"They're under the bed," replied the sufferer, glancing fearfully
around. "Yes, yes! There! I see that blackest devil with the snake
in his hand. He's grinning at me from behind the bed post. Now he's
going to throw his horrible snake at me! There! oh-oh-oh-oh!"
The fearful, despairing scream that issued from the poor creature's
lips, as he clung to his wife, curdled the very blood in the veins
of Mr. Grim, who now comprehended the meaning of the scene. Dyer and
his wife were friends of other days. With the latter he had grown up
from childhood, and there were many reasons why he felt an interest
in her. Her husband had learned drinking and idleness in his
bar-room, many years before; and more than once during the time of
his declension, had she called upon Mr. Grim, and earnestly besought
him to do something to save the one she loved best on earth from
impending ruin. But, he had entered the downward way, and it seemed
that nothing could stop his rapid progress. Now he met him, after
the lapse of ten years, and found him mad with the drunkard's
madness.
The scene was too painful for Mr. Grim. He could not bear it. So,
hurriedly drawing his purse from his pocket, he threw it upon the
floor, and turning from the room made his way out of the house,
trembling in every nerve. When he arrived at home, the perspiration
stood cold and clammy on every part of his body. His mind was
greatly excited. Most vividly did he picture, in imagination, the
horrible fiend, striking the poor drunken wretch with his serpent
spear, or blasting him with his terrific countenance. For an hour he
walked the floor of his chamber, and then, exhausted in body and
mind, threw himself on a bed, and tried to find oblivion in sleep.
But, though he wooed the gentle goddess, she came not with her
soothing poppies. Too vivid was the impression of what he had seen,
and too painful were the accompanying reflections, to admit of sweet
repose. At last, however, exhaustion came, and he fell into that
half sleeping and waking state--in which the imagination remains
active, so painful to endure. In this state, one picture presented
by imagination was most vivid of all; it was the picture of poor
Dyer, shrinking from the fiend with the serpent, which latter was
now as plainly visible to him as it had been to the unhappy
drunkard. Presently the fiend began to turn his eyes upon him with a
malignant expression; then it glanced from him to the drunkard, and
pointing at the latter, said Grim heard the voice distinctly--
"_It is your work!_"
The distiller closed his eyes to hide from view the grinning
phantom. But it did not shut out the vision. The fiend was before
him still; and now it swung around its head a horrid serpent with
distended jaws, and seemed about to dash it upon him. He cowered and
groaned in fear. As he still gazed upon the dreadful form, it slowly
changed into a female of stern yet beautiful aspect. In one hand she
held a naked sword, and in the other a balance. Her knew her, and
trembled still more intensely.
"I am JUSTICE," said the figure. "You have been weighed in the
balance and found wanting. The world is sustained by mutual
benefits. No man can live wholly for himself. Each must serve the
others. What one man produces another enjoys. You have enjoyed, in
abundance, the good things produced by others; but what has been
your return? Let me show you the work of your hands. Look!"
Suddenly there was a murmur of voices; the sound came nearer and
nearer, and a crowd of men and women came eagerly toward the
prostrate distiller--all eyes upon him, and all countenances
expressive of anger, rebuke, or despair. One poor mother held
towards him her ragged, starving child, and cried--
"Your cursed trade has murdered his father. Give him back to us!"
Another marred and degraded wretch called, with clenched hand--
"Where is my money, my good name, my all?" You have robbed me of
every thing!"
By his side was a poor drunkard, supporting the pale form of his
sick wife, while their starving children stood weeping before them--
"Look at us?" said he. "It is _your_ handy-work!"
And there were dozens of others in the squalid crowd who called to
him with bitter execrations, or pointed to their ruined homes and
cried--
"It is your work! Your work! Rum--rum has cursed us!"
"Yes, this is your work," said Justice, sternly. "For the good
things of life you received on all hands from your fellow-men, you
gave them back a stream of fire to consume them. Wealth is the
representative of use to society. It comes, or should come, as a
reward for serving the common good. So earned, it is a blessing; and
he who thus gains it has a right to its possession. But, in your
eager pursuit of gain you have cursed every man who brought you a
blessing; and now your ill-gotten wealth must be given up. See!"
And, as she spoke, she pointed to an immense bag of gold.
"It is all there!" continued Justice. "Your houses and lands, your
stocks and your merchandise, have been converted into gold; and I
now distribute it once more among the people, to be gathered by
those more worthy to possess it than thou!"
Then a troop of fiends came rushing down through the air, and,
seizing the bag, were bearing it off in triumph, when the agonized
sleeper sprang towards his gold, and in the effort threw off the
terrible nightmare that was almost crushing out his life.
There was no sleep for him during the hours that intervened until
the daylight broke. The images he had seen, and the words he had
heard, were before him all the time, crushing his heart like the
pressure of heavy footsteps. As soon as the day had dawned he
started forth and sought the dwelling he had so hastily left on the
night before. All was silent as he ascended the stairway. The door
of the room where he had been stood partly open. He listened a
moment--all was silent. He moved the door, but nothing stirred
within. Then he entered. His purse lay upon the floor where he had
thrown it; that was the first object which met his sight. The next
was the ghastly face of death! The wretched drunkard had passed to
his account; and his body lay upon the bed. Close beside was the
form of her who had been to Mr. Grim, in early years, as a tender
sister. She was in a profound sleep; and on the floor lay the child,
also wrapped in deep forgetfulness of the misery with which she was
surrounded.--
"And this is the work I have been doing!" sighed the distiller;
whose mind could not lose the vivid impression made by his dream.
A little while he contemplated the scene around him, and then taking
up his purse he silently withdrew. But ere returning home he made
known to a benevolent person the fact of the unhappy death which had
occurred, and, placing money in his hand, asked him to do all that
humanity required, and to do it at his expense.
Few men went about their daily business with a heavier heart than
Mr. Andrew Grim. He felt that he was the possessor of ill-gotten
gain; and felt, besides, a sense of insecurity.
"_Wealth is the representative of use to society. It comes, or
should come, as a reward for serving the common good_," he repeated
to himself, in the words he had heard in his dream. "And how have I
served the common good? What good have I performed that corresponds
to the blessings I have received and enjoy? Ah, me! I wish it were
otherwise."
With such thoughts, how could the man be happy! When night came
round again he feared to trust himself in the arms of sleep; and
when exhausted nature yielded, painful dreams haunted him until
morning. Weeks elapsed before the vivid impression he had received
wore off, and before he enjoyed any thing like a quiet slumber. But,
though he had a better sleep, his waking thoughts ceased to be
peaceful and self-satisfying. A year went by, and then, fretted
beyond endurance at his position of manufacturer of death and
destruction, both natural and spiritual, for his fellow men, he
broke up his distillery, and invested his money in a business that
could be followed with benefit to all.
THE RUINED FAMILY.
PART FIRST.
"HOW beautiful!" ejaculated Mary Graham, as she fixed her eyes
intently on the western sky, rich with the many-coloured clouds of a
brilliant sunset in June.
"Beautiful indeed!" responded her sister Anna.
"I could gaze on it for ever!" Ellen, a younger and more
enthusiastic sister remarked, with fervent admiration. "Look, Ma!
was ever anything more gorgeous than that pure white cloud, fringed
with brilliant gold, and relieved by the translucent and sparkling
sky beyond?"
"It is indeed very beautiful, Ellen," Mrs. Graham replied. But there
was an abstraction in her manner, that indicated, too plainly, that
something weighed upon her mind.
"You don't seem to enjoy a rich sunset as much as you used to do,
Ma," Anna said, for she felt the tone and manner in which her mother
had expressed her admiration of the scene.
"You only think so, perhaps," Mrs. Graham rejoined, endeavouring to
arouse herself, and to feel interested in the brilliant exhibition
of nature to which her daughter had alluded. "The scene is, indeed,
very beautiful, Anna, and reminds me strongly of some of
Wordsworth's exquisite descriptions, so full of power to awaken the
heart's deepest and purest emotions. You all remember this:
"'Calm is the evening air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight.'"
"And this:
"'No sound is uttered,--but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues!
In vision exquisitely clear,
Herds range along the mountain-side;
And glistening antlers are descried;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won.'"
"How calm and elevating to the heart, like the hour he describes,"
Ellen said, in a musing tone, as she sat with her eyes fixed
intently on the slow-fading glories of the many-coloured clouds.
The influence of the tranquil hour gradually subdued them into
silence; and as the twilight began to fall, each sat in the
enjoyment of a pure and refined pleasure, consequent upon a true
appreciation of the beautiful in nature, combined with highly
cultivated tastes, and innocent and elevated thoughts.
"There comes Pa, I believe," Anna remarked, breaking the silence, as
the hall door opened and then closed with a heavy jar; and the
well-known sound of her father's footsteps was heard along the
passage and on the stairs.
None of her children observed the hushed intensity with which Mrs.
Graham listened, as their father ascended to the chamber. But they
noticed that she became silent and more thoughtful than at first. In
about ten minutes she arose and left the room.
"Something seems to trouble Ma, of late," Ellen observed, as soon as
their mother had retired.
"So I have thought. She is certainly, to all appearance, less
cheerful, "Mary replied.
"What can be the cause of it?"
"I hardly think there can be any very serious cause. We are none of
us always in the same state of mind."
"But I have noticed a change, in Ma, for some months past--and
particularly in the last few weeks," Anna said. "She is not happy."
"I remember, now, that I overheard her, about six weeks ago, talking
to Alfred about something--the company he kept, I believe--and that
he seemed angry, and spoke to her, I thought, unkindly. Since that
time she has not seemed so cheerful;" Ellen said.
"That may be the cause; but still I hardly think that it is," Anna
replied. "Alfred's principal associates are William Gray and Charles
Williams; and they belong to our first families. Pa, you know, is
very intimate with both Mr. Gray and Mr. Williams."
"It was to William Gray and Charles Williams, I believe, however,
that Ma particularly objected."
"Upon what ground?"
"Upon the ground of their habits, I think, she said."
"Their habits? What of their habits, I wonder?"
"I do not know, I am sure. I only remember having heard Ma object to
them on that account."
"That is strange!" was the remark of Anna. "I am sure that I have
never seen anything out of the way, in either of them; and, as to
William Gray, I have always esteemed him very highly."
"So have I," Mary said. "Both of them are intelligent, agreeable
young men; and such, as it seems to me, are in every way fitted to
be companions for our brother."
But Mrs. Graham had seen more of the world than her daughters, and
knew how to judge from appearances far better than they. Some recent
circumstances, likewise, had quickened her perceptions of danger,
and made them doubly acute. In the two young men alluded to, now
about the ages of eighteen and twenty, she had been pained to
observe strong indications of a growing want of strict moral
restraints, combined with a tendency towards dissipation; and, what
was still more painful, an exhibition of like perversions in her
only son, now on the verge of manhood,--that deeply responsible and
dangerous period, when parental authority and control subside in a
degree, and the individual, inexperienced yet self-confident,
assumes the task of guiding himself.
When Mrs. Graham left the room, she proceeded slowly up to the
chamber into which her husband had gone, where all had been silent
since his entrance. She found him lying upon the bed, and already in
a sound sleep. The moment she bent over him, she perceived the truth
to be that which her trembling and sinking heart so much dreaded. He
was intoxicated!
Shrinking away from the bed-side, she retired to a far corner of the
room, where she seated herself by a table, and burying her face in
her arms, gave way to the most gloomy, heart-aching thoughts and
feelings. Tears brought her no relief from these; for something of
hopelessness in her sorrow, gave no room for the blessing of tears.
Mr. Graham was a merchant of high standing in Philadelphia, where,
for many years, he had been engaged extensively in the East India
trade. Six beautiful ships floated for years upon the ocean,
returning at regular intervals, freighted with the rich produce of
the East, and filling his coffers, until they overflowed, with
accumulating wealth. But it was not wealth alone that gave to Mr.
Graham the elevated social position that he held. His strong
intelligence, and the high moral tone of his character, gave him an
influence and an estimation far above what he derived from his great
riches. In the education of his children, four in number, he had
been governed by a wise regard to the effect which that education
would have upon them as members of society. He early instilled into
their minds a desire to be useful to others, and taught them the
difference between an estimation of individuals, founded upon their
wealth and position in society, and an estimation derived from
intrinsic excellence of character. The consequence of, all this was,
to make him beloved by his family--purely and tenderly beloved,
because there was added to the natural affection for one in his
position, the power of a deep respect for his character and
principles.
At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Graham was
forty-five years old. Alfred, his oldest child, was twenty-one;
Mary, nineteen; Ellen, eighteen; and Anna just entering her
sixteenth year. Up to this time, or nearly to this time, a happier
family circled no hearth in the city. But now an evil wing was
hovering over them, the shadow from which had already been perceived
by the mother's heart, as it fell coldly and darkly upon it, causing
it to shrink and tremble with gloomy apprehensions. From early
manhood up, it had been the custom of Mr. Graham to use wines and
brandies as liberally as he desired, without, the most remote
suspicion once crossing his mind that any danger to him could attend
the indulgence. But to the eye of his wife, whose suspicions had of
late been aroused, and her perceptions rendered, in consequence,
doubly acute, it had become apparent that the habit was gaining a
fatal predominance over him. She noted, with painful emotions, that
as each evening returned, there were to her eye too evident
indications that he had been indulging so freely in the use of
liquors, as to have his mind greatly obscured. His disposition, too,
was changing; and he was becoming less cheerful in his family, and
less interested in the pleasures and pursuits of his children.
Alfred, whom he had, up to this time, regarded with an earnest and
careful solicitude, was now almost entirely left to his own
guidance, at an age, too, when he needed more than ever the
direction of his father's matured experience.
All these exhibitions of a change so unlooked for, and so terrible
for a wife and mother to contemplate, might well depress the spirits
of Mrs. Graham, and fill her with deep and anxious solicitude. For
some weeks previous to the evening on which our story opens, Mr.
Graham had shown strong symptoms almost every day--symptoms
apparent, however, in the family, only to the eye of his wife--of
drunkenness. Towards the close of each day, as the hour for his
return from business drew near her feelings would become oppressed
under the fearful apprehension that when he came home, it would be
in a state of intoxication. This she dreaded on many accounts.
Particularly was she anxious to conceal the father's aberrations
from his children. She could not bear the thought that respect for
one now so deeply honoured by them, should be diminished in their
bosoms. She felt, too, keenly, the reproach that would rest upon his
name, should the vice that was now entangling, obtain full
possession of him, and entirely destroy his manly, rational freedom
of action. Of consequences to herself and children, resulting from
changed external circumstances, she did not dream. Her husband's
wealth was immense; and, therefore, even if he should so far abandon
himself as to have to relinquish business, there would be enough,
and more than enough, to sustain them in any position in society
they might choose to occupy.
On the occasion to which we have already referred, her heart was
throbbing with suspense as the hour drew nigh for his return, when,
sooner than she expected him, Mr. Graham opened the hall-door, and
instead of entering the parlour, as usual, proceeded at once to his
chamber. The quick ear of his wife detected something wrong in the
sound of his footsteps--the cause she knew too well. Oh, how deeply
wretched she felt, though she strove all in her power to seem
unmoved while in the presence of her children! Anxious to know the
worst, she soon retired, as has been seen, from the parlours, and
went up to the chamber above. Alas! how sadly were her worst fears
realized! The loved and honoured partner of many happy years, the
father of her children, lay before her, slumbering, heavily, in the
sleep of intoxication. It seemed, for a time, as if she could not
bear up under the trial. While seated, far from the bed-side,
brooding in sad despondency over the evil that had fallen upon
them--an evil of such a character that it had never been feared--it
seemed to her that she could not endure it. Her thoughts grew
bewildered, and reason for a time seemed trembling. Then her mind
settled into a gloomy calmness that, was even more terrible, for it
had about it something approaching the hopelessness of despair.
Thoughts of her children at last aroused her, as the gathering night
darkened the chamber in which she sat, and she endeavoured to rally
herself, and to assume a calmness that she was far from feeling. A
reason would have to be given for the father's non-appearance at the
tea-table. That could easily be done. Fatigue and a slight
indisposition had caused him to lie down: and as he had fallen
asleep, it was thought best not to awaken him. Such a tale was
readily told, and as readily received. The hardest task was to
school her feelings into submission, and so control the expression
of her face, and the tone of her voice, as to cause none to suspect
that there was anything wrong.
To do this fully, however, was impossible. Her manner was too
evidently changed; and her face wore too dreamy and sad an
expression to deceive her daughters, who inquired, with much
tenderness and solicitude, whether she was not well, or whether
anything troubled her.
"I am only a little indisposed," was her evasive reply to her
children's kind interrogatories.
"Can't I do something for you?" inquired Ellen, with an earnest
affection in her manner.
"No, dear," was her mother's brief response; and then followed a
silence, oppressive to all, which remained unbroken until the tea
things were removed.
"Alfred is again away at tea-time," Mrs. Graham at length said, as
they all arose from the table.
"He went out this afternoon with Charles Williams," Mary replied.
"Did he?" the mother rejoined quickly, and with something of
displeasure in her tone.
"Yes. Charles called for him in his buggy about four o'clock, and
they rode out together. I thought you knew it."
"No. I was lying down about that time."
"You do not seem to like Charles Williams much."
"I certainly do not, Anna, as a companion for Alfred. He is too fond
of pleasure and sporting, and I am very much afraid will lead your
brother astray."
"I never saw anything wrong about him, Ma."
"Perhaps not. But I have learned to be a much closer observer in
these matters than you, Mary. I have seen too many young men at
Alfred's age led away, not to feel a deep and careful solicitude for
him."
As the subject seemed to give their mother pain, her daughters did
not reply; and then another, and still more troubled silence
followed.
A chill being thrown thus over the feelings of all, the family
separated at an early hour. But Mrs. Graham did not retire to bed.
She could not, for she was strangely uneasy about her son. It was
about twelve o'clock when Alfred came in. His mother opened her door
as he passed it, to speak to him--but her tongue refused to give
utterance to the words that trembled upon it. He, too, was
intoxicated!
Brief were the hours given to sleep that night, and troubled the
slumber that locked her senses in forgetfulness. On the next
morning, the trembling hand of her husband, as he lifted his cup to
his lips, and the unrefreshed and jaded appearance of her son, told
but too plainly their abuse of nature's best energies. With her
husband, Mrs. Graham could not bring herself to speak upon the
subject. But she felt that her duty as a mother was involved in
regard to her son, and therefore she early took occasion to draw him
aside, and remonstrate against the course of folly upon which he was
entering.
"You were out late last night, Alfred," she said, in a mild tone.
"I was in at twelve, Ma."
"But that was too late, Alfred."
"I don't know, Ma. Other young men are out as late, and even later,
every night," the young man said, in a respectful tone. "I rode out
with Charles Williams in the afternoon, and then went with him to a
wine party at night."
"I must tell you frankly, Alfred, that I like neither your companion
in the afternoon, nor your company in the evening."
"You certainly do not object to Charles Williams. He stands as high
in society as I do."
"His family is one of respectability and standing. But his habits, I
fear, Alfred, are such as will, ere long, destroy all of his title
to respectful estimation."
"You judge harshly," the young man said, colouring deeply.
"I believe not, Alfred. And what is more, I am convinced that you
stand in imminent danger from your association with him."
"How?" was the quick interrogatory.
"Through him, for instance, you were induced to go to a wine party
last night."
"Well?"
"And there induced to drink too much."
"Mother!"
"I saw you when you came in, Alfred. You were in a sad condition."
For a few moments the young man looked his mother in the face, while
an expression of grief and mortification passed over his own.
"It is true," he at length said, in a subdued tone, "that I did
drink to excess, last evening. But do not be alarmed on that
account. I will be more guarded, in future. And let me now assure
you, most earnestly, that I am in no danger: that I am not fond of
wine. I was led to drink too much, last evening, from being in a
company where wine was circulated as freely as water. I thought you
looked troubled, this morning, but did not dream that it was on my
account. Let me, then, urge you to banish from your mind all fears
in regard to me."
"I cannot banish such fears, my son, so long as I know that you have
dangerous associates. No one is led off, no one is corrupted
suddenly."
"But I do not think that I have dangerous associates."
"I am sure you have, Alfred. If they had not been such, you would
not have been led astray, last night. Go not into the way of
temptation. Shun the very beginnings of evil. Remember Pope's
warning declaration:--
"'Vice, to be hated, needs but to be seen,' &c."
"Indeed, indeed, Ma, you are far too serious about this matter."
"No, my son, I cannot be!"
"Well, perhaps not. But, as I know the nature of my associations far
better than you possibly can, you must pardon me for thinking that
they involve no danger. I have arrived to years of discretion, and
certainly think that I am, or at least ought to be, able to judge
for my self."
There was that in the words and tone of the young man, that made the
mother feel conscious that it would be no use for her to urge the
matter further, at that time. She merely replied--
"For your mother's sake, Alfred, guard yourself more carefully, in
future."
It is wonderful, sometimes, how rapidly a downward course is run.
The barrier, against which the waters have been driven for years, is
rapidly washed away, so soon as even the smallest breach is made. A
breach had been made in Mr. Graham's resolution to be only a sober
drinker of intoxicating liquors; and the consequence was, that he
had less power to resist the strong inclination to drink, that had
become almost like a second nature to him. A few weeks only elapsed,
before he came home so drunk as to expose himself in the street, and
before his children and servants, in a most disgusting and degrading
manner.
Terrible indeed was the shock to his children--especially to Mary,
Ellen and Anna. His sudden death could not have been a more fearful
affliction. Then, they would have sorrowed in filial respect and
esteem, made sacred by an event that would embalm the memory of
their father in the permanent regard of a whole community: now, he
stood degraded in their eyes; and they felt that he was degraded in
the eyes of all. In his presence they experienced restraint, and
they looked for his coming with a shrinking fear. It was, indeed, an
awful affliction--such as few can realize in imagination; and
especially for them, as they occupied a conspicuous position in
society, and were conscious that all eyes were upon them, and that
all tongues would be busy with the story of their father's
degradation.
It is wonderful, we have said, how rapidly a downward course is
sometimes run. In the case of Mr. Graham, many circumstances
combined to hasten his ruin. It was nearly a year after he had given
way to the regular indulgence of drink, so far as to be kept almost
constantly in a state of half-intoxication through the business
hours of almost every day, that he received news of the loss of a
vessel richly laden with teas from China. At the proper time he
presented the requisite documents to his underwriters, and claimed
the loss, amounting, on ship and cargo, to one hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars. On account of alleged improper conduct
on the part of the captain, united with informality in the papers,
the underwriters refused to pay the loss. A suit at law was the
consequence, in which the underwriters were sustained. An appeal was
made, but the same result followed-thus sweeping away, at a single
blow, property to the amount of over one hundred thousand dollars.
During the progress of the trial, Mr. Graham was much excited, and
drank more freely than ever. When the result was finally
ascertained, he sank down into a kind of morose inactivity for some
months, neglecting his large and important business, and indulging,
during the time, more deeply than ever in his favourite potations.
It was in vain that his distressed family endeavoured to rouse him
into activity. All their efforts were met by an irritability and a
moroseness of temper so unlike what he had been used to exhibit
towards them, that they gave up all idea of influencing him in
despair.
A second heavy loss, of nearly equal amount, altogether consequent
upon this neglect of business, seemed to awaken up the latent
energies of his character, and he returned to himself with something
of his former clear-sighted energy of character. But his affairs had
already become, to him, strangely entangled. The machinery of his
extensive operations had been interrupted; and now, in attempting to
make the wheels move on again, it was too apparent that much of it
had become deranged, and the parts no longer moved in harmonious
action with the whole. The more these difficulties pressed upon him,
the deeper did he drink, as a kind of relief, and, in consequence,
the more unfit to extricate himself from his troubles did he become.
Every struggle, like the efforts of a large animal in a quagmire,
only tended to involve him deeper and deeper in inextricable
embarrassment.
This downward tendency continued for about three years, when his
family was suddenly stunned by the shock of his failure. It seemed
impossible for them to realize the truth--and, indeed, almost
impossible for the whole community to realize it. It was only three
or four years previous that his wealth was estimated, and truly so,
at a million and a half. He was known to have met with heavy losses,
but where so much could have gone, puzzled every one. It seems
almost incredible that any man could have run through such an estate
by mismanagement, in so brief a period. But such was really the
case. Accustomed to heavy operations, he continued to engage in only
the most liberal transactions, every loss in which was a matter of
serious moment. And towards the last, as his mind grew more and more
bewildered in consequence of is drinking deeper and deeper, he
scarcely got up a single voyage, that did not result in loss; until,
finally, he was driven to an utter abandonment of business--but not
until he had involved his whole estate in ruin.
The beautiful family mansion on Chestnut-street had to be given
up--the carriage and elegant furniture sold under the hammer, while
the family retired, overwhelmed with distress, to an humble dwelling
in an obscure part of the city.
Seven years from the day on which Mrs. Graham and her children were
thus thrown suddenly down from their elevation, and driven into
obscurity, that lady sat alone, near the window of a
meanly-furnished room in a house on the suburbs of the city,
overlooking the Schuylkill. It was near the hour of sunset.
Gradually the day declined, and the dusky shadows of evening fell
gloomily around. Still Mrs. Graham sat leaning her head upon her
hand, in deep abstraction of mind. Alas! seven years had wrought a
sad change in her appearance, and a sadder one in her feelings. Her
deeply-sunken eye, and pale, thin face, told a tale of wretchedness
and suffering, whose silent appeal made the very heart ache. Her
garments, too, were old and faded, and antiquated in style.
She sat thus for about half-an-hour, when the door of the room was
opened slowly, and a young woman entered, carrying on her arm a
small basket. She seemed, at first sight, not over twenty-three or
four years of age; but, when observed more closely, her hollow
cheek, pale face, and languid motions, indicated the passage of
either many more years over her head, or the painful inroads of
disease and sorrow. Mrs. Graham looked up, but did not speak, as the
young woman entered, and, after placing her basket on a table, laid
aside her bonnet and faded shawl.
"How did you find Ellen, to-day?" she at length said.
"Bad enough!" was the mournful reply. "It makes my heart ache, Ma,
whenever I go to see her."
"Was her husband at home?"
"Yes, and as drunk and ill-natured as ever."
"How is the babe, Mary?"
"Not well. Dear little innocent creature! it has seen the light of
this dreary world in an evil time. Ellen has scarcely any milk for
it; and I could not get it to feed, try all I could. It nestles in
her breast, and frets and cries almost incessantly, with pain and
hunger. Although it is now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have
gained scarcely any strength at all. She has no appetite, and creeps
about with the utmost difficulty. With three little children hanging
about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her condition is
wretched indeed. It would be bad enough, were her husband kind to
her. But cross, drunken and idle, scarcely furnishing his family
with food enough to sustain existence, her life with him is one of
painful trial and suffering. Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive
disposition and delicate body, how she can endure such a life for a
week."
A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother's only response. Her
daughter continued,
"Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in my side, and
weakness, I must go over again to-morrow and stay with her. She
ought not to be left alone. The dear children, too, require a great
deal of attention that she cannot possibly give to them."
"You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had you not, Mary?
I could attend to her much better than Ellen can."
"I was thinking of that myself, Ma. But you seemed so poorly, that I
did not feel like saying anything about it just now."
"O yes. Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, by all means. It
will take that much off of poor Ellen's hands."
"Then I will do so, Ma; at least if Ellen is willing," Mary said, in
a lighter tone--the idea of even that relief being extended to her
overburdened sister causing her mind to rise in a momentary
buoyancy.
"Anna is late to-night," she remarked, after a pause of a few
moments.
As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of whom she spoke
entered.
"You are late to-night, Anna," her mother said.
"Yes, rather later than usual. I had to take a few small articles
home for a lady, after I left the store, who lives in Sixth near
Spring Garden."
"In Sixth near Spring Garden!"
"Yes. The lad who takes home goods had gone, and the lady was
particular about having them sent home this evening."
"Do you not feel very tired?"
"Indeed I do," the poor girl said, sinking into a chair. "I feel,
sometimes, as if I must give up. No one in our store is allowed to
sit down from morning till night. The other girls don't appear to
mind it much; but before evening, it seems as if I must drop to the
floor. But I won't complain," she added, endeavouring to rally
herself, and put on a cheerful countenance. "How have you been
to-day, Ma?"
"If you won't complain, I am sure that I have no right to, Anna."
"You cannot be happy, of course, Ma; that I know too well. None of
us, I fear, will ever be again happy in this world!" Anna said, in a
tone of despondency, her spirits again sinking.
No one replied to this; and a gloomy silence of many minutes
followed--a quiet almost as oppressive as the stillness that reigns
in the chamber of death. Then Mary commenced busying herself about
the evening meal.
"Tea is ready, Ma and Anna," she at length said, after their frugal
repast had been placed upon the table.
"Has not Alfred returned yet?" Anna asked.
"No," was the brief answer.
"Hadn't we better wait for him?"
"He knows that it is tea-time, and ought to be here, if he wants
any," the mother said. "You are tired and hungry, and we will not,
of course, wait."
The little family, three in number, gathered around the table, but
no one eat with an appetite of the food that was placed before them.
There were two vacant places at the board. The husband and son--the
father and brother--where were they?
In regard to the former, the presentation of a scene which occurred
a few weeks previous will explain all. First, however, a brief
review of the past seven years is necessary. After Mr. Graham's
failure in business, he gave himself up to drink, and sunk, with his
whole family, down into want and obscurity with almost unprecedented
rapidity. He seemed at once to become strangely indifferent to his
wife and children--to lose all regard for their welfare. In fact, he
had become, in a degree, insane from the sudden reverses which had
overtaken him, combined with the bewildering effects of strong
drinks, under whose influence he was constantly labouring.
Thus left to struggle on against the pressure of absolute want,
suddenly and unexpectedly brought upon them, and with no internal or
external resources upon which to fall promptly back, Mrs. Graham and
her daughters were for a time overwhelmed with despair. Alfred, to
whom they should have looked for aid, advice, and sustenance, in
this hour of severe trial, left almost entirely to himself, as far
as his father had been concerned, for some two years, had sunk into
habits of dissipation from which even this terrible shock had not
the power to arouse him. Having made himself angry in his opposition
to, and resistance of, all his mother's admonitions, warnings, and
persuasions, he seemed to have lost all affection for her and his
sisters. So that a sense of their destitute and distressed condition
had no influence over him--at least, not sufficient to arouse him
into active exertions for their support. Thus were they left utterly
dependent upon their own resources--and what was worse, were
burdened with the support of both father and brother.
The little that each had been able to save from the general wreck,
was, as a means of sustenance, but small. Two or three gold watches
and chains, with various articles of (sic) jewelery, fancy
work-boxes, and a number of trifles, more valued than valuable, made
up, besides a remnant of household furniture, the aggregate of their
little wealth. Of course, the mother and daughters were driven, at
once, to some expedient for keeping the family together. A
boarding-house, that first resort of nearly all destitute females,
upon whom families are dependent, especially of those who have
occupied an elevated position in society, was opened, as the only
means of support that presented itself. The result of this
experiment, continued for a year and a half, was a debt of several
hundred dollars, which was liquidated by the seizure of Mrs.
Graham's furniture. But worse than this, a specious young man, one
of the boarders, had won upon the affections of Ellen, and induced
her to marry him. He, too soon, proved himself to have neither a
true affection for her, nor to have sound moral principles. He was,
moreover, idle, and fond of gay company.
On the day that Mrs. Graham broke up her boardinghouse, Markland,
her daughter's husband, was discharged from his situation as clerk,
on account of inefficiency. For six months previous, the time he had
been married, he had paid no boarding, thus adding himself as a dead
weight to the already overburdened family. As he had no house to
which he could take Ellen, he very naturally felt himself authorized
to share the house to which the distressed family of her mother
retired, seemingly regardless of how or by whom the food he daily
consumed was provided.
But Mrs. Graham was soon reduced to such extremities, that he was
driven off from her, with his wife, and forced to obtain employment
by which to support himself and her. As for the old man, he had
managed, in the wreck of affairs, to retain a large proportion of
his wines, and other choice liquors; and these, which no pressure of
want in his family could drive him to sell, afforded the means of
gratifying his inordinate love of drink. His clothes gradually
became old and rusty--but this seemed to give him no concern. He
wandered listlessly in his old business haunts, or lounged about the
house in a state of half stupor, drinking regularly all through the
day, at frequent periods, and going to bed, usually, at nights, in a
state of stupefaction.
When the boarding-house was given up, poor Mrs. Graham, whose health
and spirits had both rapidly declined in the past two years, felt
utterly at a loss what to do. But pressing necessities required
immediate action.
"Anna, child, what are we to do," she said, rousing herself, one
evening, while sitting alone with her daughters in gloomy
abstraction.
"Indeed, Ma, I am as much at a loss as you are. I have been thinking
and thinking about it, until my min--has become beclouded and
bewildered."
"I have been thinking, too," said Mary, "and it strikes me that Anna
and I might do something in the way of ornamental needlework. Both
of us, you know, are fond of it."
"Do you think that we can sell it, after it is done?" Anna asked,
with a lively interest in her tone.
"I certainly do. We see plenty of such work in the shops; and they
must buy it, of course."
"Let us try, then, Mary," her sister said with animation.
A week spent in untiring industry, produced two elegantly wrought
capes, equal to the finest French embroidery.
"And, now, where shall we sell them?" Anna inquired, in a tone of
concern.
"Mrs.--would, no doubt, buy them; but I, for one, cannot bear the
thought of going there."
"Nor I. But, driven by necessity, I believe that I could brave to go
there, or anywhere else, even though I have not been in
Chestnut-street for nearly two years."
"Will you go, then, Mary?" Anna asked, in an earnest, appealing
tone.
"Yes, Anna, as you seem so shrinkingly reluctant, I will go."
And forthwith Mary prepared herself; and rolling up the two elegant
capes, proceeded with them to the store of Mrs.--, in
Chestnut-street. It was crowded with customers when she entered, and
so she shrunk away to the back part of the store, until
Mrs.--should be more at leisure, and she could bargain with her
without attracting attention. She had stood there only a few
moments,--when her ear caught the sound of a familiar voice--that of
Mary Williams, one of her former most intimate associates. Her first
impulse was to spring forward, but a remembrance of her changed
condition instantly recurring to her, she turned more away from the
light, so as to effectually conceal herself from the young lady's
observation. This she was enabled to do, although Mary Williams came
once or twice so near as to brush her garments. How oppressively did
her heart beat, at such moments! Old thoughts and old feelings came
rushing back upon her, and in the contrast they occasioned between
the past and the present, she was almost overwhelmed with
despondency. Customer after customer came in, as one and another
retired, many of whose faces were familiar to Mary as old friends
and acquaintances. At last, however, after waiting nearly two hours,
she made out to get an interview with Mrs.--.
"Well, Miss, what do you want?" asked that personage, as Mary came
up before her where she still stood at the counter, for she had
observed her waiting in the store for some time. Mrs.--either did
not remember, or cared not to remember, her old customer, who had
spent, with her sisters, many hundreds of dollars in her store, in
times past.
"I have a couple of fine wrought capes that I should like to sell,"
Mary said, in a timid, hesitating voice, unrolling, at the same
time, the articles she named.
"Are they French?" asked Mrs.--, without pausing in her employment
of rolling up some goods, to take and examine the articles proffered
her.
"No, ma'am; they are some of my own and sister's work."
"They won't do, then, Miss. Nothing in the way of fine collars and
capes will sell, unless they are French."
Mary felt chilled at heart as Mrs.--said this, and commenced
slowly rolling up her capes, faint with disappointment. As she was
about turning from the counter, Mrs.--said, in rather an
indifferent tone,
"Suppose you let me look at them."
"I am sure you will think them very beautiful," Mary replied,
quickly unrolling her little bundle. "They have been wrought with
great care."'
"Sure enough, they are quite well done," Mrs.--said, coldly, as
she glanced her eyes over the capes. "Almost equal in appearance to
the French. But they are only domestic; and domestic embroidered
work won't bring scarcely anything. What do you ask for these?"
"We have set no price upon them; but think that they are richly
worth five or six dollars apiece."
"Five or six dollars!" ejaculated Mrs.--, in well feigned
surprise, handing back; suddenly, the capes. "O! no, Miss;--American
goods don't bring arty such prices."
"Then what will you give for them, Madam?"
"If you feel like taking two dollars apiece for them, you can leave
them. But I am not particular," Mrs.--said, in a careless tone.
"Two dollars!" repeated Mary, in surprise. "Surely, Mrs.--, they
are worth more than two dollars apiece!"
"I'm not at all anxious to give you even that for them," said
Mrs.--. "Not at all; for I am by no means sure that I shall ever
get my money back again."
"You will have to take them, then, I suppose," Mary replied, in a
disappointed and desponding tone.
"Very well, Miss, I will give you what I said." And Mrs.--took the
capes, and handed Mary Graham four dollars in payment.
"If we should conclude to work any more, may we calculate on getting
the same money for them?"
"I can't say positively, Miss; but I think that you may calculate on
that price for as many as you will bring."
Mary took the money, and turned away. It was only half an hour
after, that Mrs.--sold one of them, as "French," for twelve
dollars!
Sadly, indeed, were the sisters disappointed at this result. But
nothing better offering that they could do, they devoted themselves,
late and early, to their needles, the proceeds of which rarely went
over five dollars per week; for two years they continued to labour
thus.
At the end of that period, Anna sunk under her self-imposed task,
and lay ill for many weeks. Especially forbidden by the physician,
on her recovery, to enter again upon sedentary employments, Anna
cast earnestly about her for some other means whereby to earn
something for the common stock. Necessity, during the past two
years, had driven her frequently into business parts of the city for
the purchase of materials such as they used. Her changed lot gave
her new eyes, and her observations were necessarily made upon a new
class of facts. She had seen shop-girls often enough before, but she
had never felt any sympathy with them, nor thought of gaining any
information about them. They might receive one dollar a week, or
twenty, or work for nothing--it was all the same to her. Even if any
one had given her correct information on the subject, she would have
forgotten it in ten minutes. But now, it was a matter of interest to
know how much they could make--and she had obtained a knowledge of
the fact, that they earned from three to six and seven dollars a
week, according to their capacities or the responsibility of their
stations.
When, therefore, her shattered health precluded her from longer
plying her needle, much as she shrank from the publicity and
exposure of the position, she resolutely set about endeavouring to
obtain a situation as saleswoman in some retail dry-goods store. One
of the girls in Mrs.--'s store, who knew all about her family, and
deeply commiserated her condition, interested herself for her, and
succeeded in getting her a situation, at four dollars a week, in
Second-street. To enter upon the employment that now awaited her,
was indeed a severe trial; but she went resolutely forward, in the
way that duty called.
The sudden change from a sedentary life to one of activity, where
she had to be on her feet all day, tried her feeble strength
severely. It was with difficulty that she could sometimes keep up at
all, and she went home frequently at night in a burning fever. But
she gradually acquired a kind of power of endurance, that kept her
up. She did not seem to suffer less, but had more strength, as it
were, to bear up, and hold on with unflinching resolution.
Thus she had gone on for two or three years, at the time she was
again introduced, with her mother and sister, to the reader.
As for their father, his whole stock of liquors had been exhausted
for nearly two years, and, during that time, he had resorted to many
expedients to obtain the potations he so much loved. Finally, he
became so lost to all sense of right or feeling, that he would take
money, or anything he could carry off from the house, for the
purpose of obtaining liquor. This system had stripped them of many
necessary articles, as well as money, and added very greatly to
their distress, as well as embarrassments.
At last, everything that he could take had been taken, and as
neither his wife nor daughters would give him any money, his supply
of stimulus was cut off, and he became almost mad with the
intolerable desire that was burning within him for the fiery poison
which had robbed him of rationality and freedom.
"Give me some money!" he said, in an excited tone, to his wife,
coming in hurriedly from the street, one day about this time. His
face was dark and red, as if there were a congestion of the blood in
the veins of the skin, while his hands trembled, and his whole frame
was strongly agitated. Those who had been familiar with that old
man, years before, would hardly have recognized him now, in his old
worn and faded garments.
"I have no money for you," his wife replied. "You have already
stripped us of nearly everything."
"Buy me some brandy, then."
"No. I cannot do that either. Brandy has cursed you and your family.
Why do you not abandon it for ever?"
"I must have brandy, or die! Give me something to drink, in the name
of heaven!"
The wild look that her husband threw upon her, alarmed Mrs. Graham,
and she hesitated no longer, but handed him a small piece of money.
Quick as thought, he turned away and darted from the house.
It was, perhaps, after the lapse of about half an hour that he
returned. He opened the door, when he did so, quietly, and stood
looking into the room for a few moments. Then he turned his head
quickly from the right to the left, glancing fearfully behind him
once or twice. In a moment or two afterwards he started forward,
with a strong expression of alarm upon his countenance, and seated
himself close beside Mrs. Graham, evidently in the hope of receiving
her protection from some dreaded evil.
"What is the matter?" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Graham, starting up
with a frightened look.
"It is really dreadful!" he said. "What can it all mean?"
"What is dreadful?" asked his wife, her heart throbbing with an
unknown terror.
"There! Did you ever see such an awful sight? Ugh!" and he shrunk
behind her chair, and covered his eyes with his hands.
"I see nothing, Mr. Graham," his wife said, after a few moments of
hurried thought, in which she began to comprehend the fact that her
husband's mind was wandering.
"There is nothing here that will hurt you, father," Mary added,
coming up to him, as her own mind arrived at a conclusion similar to
her mother's.
"Nothing to hurt me!" suddenly screamed the old man, springing to
his feet, and throwing himself backwards half across the room; "and
that horrible creature already twining himself about my neck, and
strangling me! Take it off! take it off!" he continued, in a wild
cry of terror, making strong efforts to tear something away from his
throat.
"Take it off'! Why don't you take it off! Don't you see that it is
choking me to death! Oh! oh! oh!" (uttered in a terrific scream.)
Panting, screaming and struggling, he continued in this state of
awful alarm, vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the toils
of an imaginary monster, that was suffocating him, until he sank
exhausted to the floor.
Happily for his alarmed and distressed family, two or three
neighbours, who had been startled by the old man's screams,--came
hurriedly in, and soon comprehended the nature of his aberration. A
brief consultation among themselves determined them, understanding,
as they did perfectly, the condition of the family, and his relation
to them, to remove him at once to the Alms-House, where he could get
judicious medical treatment, and be out of the sight and hearing of
his wife and children.
One of them briefly explained to Mrs. Graham, and Mary, the nature
of his mental affection, and the absolute necessity that there was
for his being placed where the most skilful and judicious management
of his case could be had. After some time, he gained their reluctant
consent to have him taken to the Alms-House. A carriage was then
obtained, and he forced into it, amid the tears and remonstrances of
the wife and daughter, who had already repented of their
acquiescence in what their judgment had approved. Old affection had
rushed back upon their hearts, and feelings became stronger than
reason.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when this occurred. Early
on the next morning, Mrs. Graham, with Mary and Anna, went out to
see him. Their inquiries about his condition were vaguely answered,
and with seeming reluctance, or as it appeared to them, with
indifference. At length the matron of the institution asked them to
go with her, and they followed on, through halls and galleries,
until they came to a room, the door of which she opened, with a
silent indication for them to enter.
They entered alone. Everything was hushed, and the silence that of
the chamber of death. In the centre of the room lay the old man. A
single glance told the fearful tale. He was dead! Dead in the
pauper's home! Seven years before, a millionaire--now sleeping his
last sleep in the dead-room of an Alms-House, and his beggared wife
and children weeping over him in heart-broken and hopeless sorrow.
From that time the energies of Mary and Anna seemed paralyzed; and
it was only with a strong effort that Mrs. Graham could rouse
herself from the stupor of mind and body that had settled upon her.
Mrs. Graham and her two daughters had nearly finished their evening
meal, at the close of the day alluded to some pages back, when the
sound of rapidly hurrying footsteps was heard on the pavement. In a
moment after, a heavy blow was given just at their door, and some
one fell with a groan against it. The weight of the body forced it
open, and the son and brother rolled in upon the floor, with the
blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his forehead. His assailant
instantly fled. Bloated, disfigured, in coarse and worn clothing,
how different, even when moving about, was he from the genteel,
well-dressed young man of a few years back! Idleness and dissipation
had wrought as great a change upon him as it had upon his father,
while he was living. Now he presented a shocking and loathsome
appearance.
The first impulse of Mary was to run for a physician, while the
mother and Anna attempted to stanch the flow of blood, that had
already formed a pool upon the floor. Assistance was speedily
obtained, and the wound dressed; but the young man remained
insensible. As the physician turned from the door, Mrs. Graham sank
fainting upon her bed. Over-tried nature could bear up no longer.
"Doctor, what do you think of him?" asked the mother, anxiously,
three days after, as the physician came out of Alfred's room. Since
the injury he had received, he had lain in a stupor, but with much
fever.
"His case, Madam, is an extremely critical one. I have tried in vain
to control that fever."
"Do you think him very dangerous, Doctor?" Mary asked, in a husky
voice.
"I certainly do. And, to speak to you the honest truth, have,
myself, no hope of his recovery. I think it right that you should
know this."
"No hope, Doctor!" Mrs. Graham said, laying her hand upon the
physician's arm, while her face grew deadly pale. "No hope!--My only
son die thus!--O! Doctor, can you not save him?"
"I wish it were in my power, Madam. But I will not flatter you with
false hopes. It will be little less than a miracle should he
survive."
The mother and sisters turned away with an air of hopelessness from
the physician, and he retired slowly, and with oppressed feelings.
When they returned to the sick chamber, a great change had already
taken place in Alfred. The prediction of the physician, it was
evident to each, as all bent eagerly over him, was about to be too
surely and too suddenly realized. His face, from being slightly
flushed with fever, had become sunken, and ghastly pale, and his
respiration so feeble that it was almost imperceptible.
The last and saddest trial of this ruined family had come. The son
and brother, for whom now rushed back upon their hearts the tender
and confiding affection of earlier years, was lingering upon life's
extremest verge. It seemed that they could not give him up. They
felt that, even though he were neglectful of them, they could not do
without him. He was a son and brother; and, while he lived, there
was still hope of his restoration. The strength of that hope,
entertained by each in the silent chambers of affection, was unknown
before--its trial revealed its power over each crushed and sinking
heart.
But the passage of each moment brought plainer and more palpable
evidence of approaching dissolution. For about ten minutes he had
lain so still, that they were suddenly aroused by the fear that he
might be already dead Softly did the mother lay her hand upon his
forehead. Its cold and clammy touch sent an icy thrill to her heart
Then she bent her ear to catch even the feeblest breath--but she
could distinguish none.
"He is dead!" she murmured, sinking down and burying her face in the
bed-clothes.
The cup of their sorrow was, at last, full--full and running over!
THE RUINED FAMILY
PART SECOND.
STUNNED by this new affliction, which seemed harder to bear than any
of the terrible ones that had gone before, Mrs. Graham sunk into a
state of half unconsciousness; but Anna still lingered over the
insensible body of her brother, and though reason told her that the
spirit had taken its everlasting departure, her heart still hoped
that it might not be so,--that a spark yet remained which would
rekindle.
The pressure of her warm hand upon his cold, damp forehead, mocked
her hopes. His motionless chest told of the vanity of her fond
anticipations of seeing his heart again quicken into living
activity. And yet, she could not give him up. She could not believe
that he was dead. As she still hung over him, it seemed to her that
there was a slight twitching of the muscles about the neck. How
suddenly did her heart bound and throb until its strong pulsations
pained her! Eagerly did she bend down upon him, watching for some
more palpable sign of returning animation. But nothing met either
her eye or her ear that strengthened the newly awakened hope.
After waiting, vainly, for some minutes, until the feeble hope she
had entertained began to fail, Anna stepped quickly to the
mantelpiece, and lifted from it a small looking-glass, with which
she returned to the bedside. Holding this close to the face of her
brother, she watched the surface with an eager anxiety that almost
caused the beating of her heart to cease. As a slight mist slowly
gathered upon the glass and obscured its surface, Anna cried out
with a voice that thrilled the bosoms of her mother and sister--
"He lives! he lives!" and gave way to a gush of tears.
This sudden exclamation, of course, brought Mrs. Graham and Mary to
the bedside, who instantly comprehended the experiment which Anna
had been making and understood the result. The mother, in turn, with
trembling hands, lifted the mirror, and held it close to the face of
her son. In a moment or two, its surface was obscured, plainly
indicating that respiration, though almost imperceptible, was still
going on,--that life still lingered in the feeble body before them.
Gradually, now, the flame that had well-nigh gone out, kindled up
again, but so slowly, that for many hours the mother and sisters
were in doubt whether it were really brightening or not. The fever
that had continued for several days, exhausting the energies of the
young man's system, had let go its hold, because scarcely enough
vital energy remained for it to subsist upon. In its subsidence,
life trembled on the verge of extinction. But there was yet
sufficient stamina for it to rally upon; and it did rally, and
gradually, but very slowly, gained strength.
In an earnest spirit of thankfulness for this restoration of Alfred,
did the mother and sisters look up to the Giver of all good, and
with tearful devotion pray that there might ensue a moral as well as
a physical restoration. For years, they had not felt towards him the
deep and yearning tenderness that now warmed their bosoms. They
longed to rescue him, not for their sakes, but for his own, from the
horrible pit and the miry clay into which he had fallen.
"O, if we could but save him, sister!" Anna said, as she sat
conversing with Mary, after all doubt of his recovery had been
removed. "If we could only do some. thing to restore our brother to
himself, how glad I should be!"
"I would do anything in my power," Mary replied, "and sacrifice
everything that it was right to sacrifice, if, by so doing, I could
help Alfred to conquer his besetting evils. I cannot tell you how I
feel about it. It seems as if it would break my heart to have him
return again into his old habits of life: and yet, what have we to
found a hope upon, that he will not so return?"
"I feel just as you do about it, Mary," her sister said. "The same
yearning desire to save him, and the same hopelessness as to the
means."
"There is one way, it seems to me, in which we might influence him."
"What is that, Mary?"
"Let us manifest towards him, fully, the real affection that we
feel; perhaps that may awaken a chord in this own bosom, and thus
lead him, for our sakes, to enter upon a new course of life."
"We can at least try, Mary. It can do no harm, and may result in
good."
With the end of his reformation in view, the two sisters, during his
convalescence, attended him with the most assiduous and affectionate
care. The moment Anna would come home from the store at night, she
would repair with a smiling countenance to his bedside, and although
usually so fatigued as to be compelled to rally her spirits with an
effort, she would seem so interested and cheerful and active to
minister in some way to his pleasure, that Alfred began to look
forward every day as the evening approached, with a lively interest,
for her return. This Mary observed, and it gave her hope.
Three weeks soon passed away, when Alfred was so far recovered as to
be able to walk out.
"Do not walk far, brother," Mary said, laying her hand gently upon
his arm, and looking him with affectionate earnestness in the face.
"You are very weak, and the fatigue might bring on a relapse."
"I shall only walk a little way, Mary," he replied, as he opened the
door and went out.
Neither the mother nor sister could utter the fear that each felt,
lest Alfred should meet with and fall in temptation before he
returned. This fear grew stronger and stronger, as the minutes began
to accumulate, and lengthen to an hour. A period of ten or fifteen
minutes was as long as they had any idea of his remaining away.
Where could he be? Had he been taken sick; or was he again yielding
to the seductions of a depraved and degrading appetite? The suspense
became agonizing to their hearts, as not only one, but two, and even
three hours passed, bringing the dim twilight, and yet he returned
not.
In the meantime, the young man, whose appearance the careful hand of
Mary and her sister had been rendered far superior to what it had
been for years past, went out from his mother's humble dwelling, and
took his way slowly down one of the streets, leading to the main
portion of the city, with many thoughts of a painful character
passing through his mind. The few weeks that he had been confined to
the house, and in constant association with his mother, and one or
both of his sisters, who were at home, had startled his mind into
reflection. He could not but contrast their constant and
affectionate devotion to him, with his own shameful and criminal
neglect of them. Conceal her real feelings as she would, it did not
escape his notice, that when Anna came home at night, she was so
much exhausted as to be hardly able to sit up; and as for Mary,
often when she dreamed not that he was observing her, had he noticed
her air of languor and exhaustion, and her half-stifled expression
of pain,--as she bent resolutely over her needle-work. Never before
had he felt so indignant towards Ellen's husband for his neglect and
abuse of her, his once favourite sister; and, indeed, the favourite
of the whole family.
It was, to his own mind, a mystery how he ever could have sunk so
low, and become so utterly regardless of his mother and sisters.
"Wretch! wretch! miserable wretch that I am!" he would, sometimes,
mentally exclaim, turning his face to the wall as he lay reviewing,
involuntarily, his past life. Uniformly it happened, that following
such a crisis in his feelings, would be some affectionate word or
kind attention from Mary or his mother, smiting upon his heart with
emotions of the keenest remorse.
It was under the influence of such feelings that he went out on the
afternoon just alluded to. Still, no settled plan of reformation had
been formed in his mind, for the discouraging question would
constantly arise while pondering gloomily over his condition and the
condition of the family.
"What can I do?" To this, he could find no satisfactory answer.
Three or four years of debasing drunkenness, had utterly separated
him from those who had it in their power to encourage and strengthen
his good desires,--and to put him in the way of providing for
himself and his family, by an industrious application to some kind
of business.
He had walked slowly on, in painful abstraction, for about five
minutes, when a hand was laid on his arm, and a familiar voice
said--
"Is this you, Graham! Where in the name of Pluto have you been, for
the last three weeks? Why, how blue you look about the gills! Havn't
been sick, I hope?"
"Indeed I have, Harry," Alfred replied, in a feeble voices. "It came
very near being all over with me."
"Indeed! Well, what was the matter?"
Raising his hat, and displaying a long and still angry-looking wound
on the side of his head, from which the hair had been carefully cut
away, he said--
"Do you see that?"
"I reckon I do."
"Well, that came very near doing the business for me."
"How did it happen?"
"I hardly know, myself. I was drunk, I suppose, and quarrelled with
some one, or insulted some one in the street--and this was the
consequence."
"Really, Graham, you have made a narrow escape."
"Havn't I? It kept me in bed for nearly three weeks, and now, I can
just totter about. This is the first time I have been outside of the
house since it happened."
"You certainly do look weak and feeble enough," replied his old
friend and crony, who added, in a moment after,
"But come! take a drink with me at the tavern across here. You stand
in need of something."
"No objection, and thank you," Alfred rejoined, at once moving over
towards a well-known, low tavern, quenching in imagination a morbid
thirst that seemed instantly created, by a draught of sweetened
liquor.
"What will you take?" asked his friend, as the two came up to the
counter.
"I'll take a mint sling," Alfred replied.
"Two mint slings," said his companion, giving his orders to the
bar-keeper.
"Hallo, Graham! Is this you?" exclaimed one or two loungers, coming
forward, and shaking him heartily by the hand. "We had just made up
our minds that you had joined the cold-water army."
"Indeed!" suddenly ejaculated Graham, an instant consciousness of
what he was, where he was, and what he was about to do, flashing
over his mind. "I wish to heaven your conclusion had been true!"
This sudden charge in his manner, and his earnestly, indeed solemnly
expressed wish, were received with a burst of laughter.
"Here Dan," said one, to the bar-keeper, "havn't you a pledge for
him to sign."
"O, yes! Bring a pledge! Bring a pledge! Has no one a pledge?"
rejoined another, in a tone of ridicule.
"Yes, here is one," said a man in a firm tone, entering the shop at
the moment. "Who wants to sign the pledge?"
"I do!" Graham said, in a calm voice.
"Then here it is," the stranger replied, drawing a sheet of paper
from his pocket, and unrolling it.
"Give me a pen Dan," Alfred said, turning to the barkeeper.
"Indeed, then, and I won't," retorted that individual, "I'm not
going to lend a stick to break my own head."
"O, never mind, young man, I can supply pen and ink," said the
stranger, drawing forth a pocket inkstand.
Alfred eagerly seized the pen that was offered to him, and instantly
subscribed the total abstinence pledge.
"Another fool caught!" sneered one.
"Ha! ha! ha! What a ridiculous farce!" chimed in another.
"He'll be rolling in the gutter before three days, feeling upwards
for the ground," added a third.
"Why, I don't believe he can see through a ladder now;" the first
speaker said, with his contemptuous sneer. "Look here, mister," to
the stranger who had appeared so opportunely. "This is all gammon!
He's been fooling you."
"Come along, my friend," was all the stranger said, drawing his arm
within that of the penitent young man, as he did so,--"this is no
place for you."
And the two walked slowly out, amid the laughter, sneers, and open
ridicule of the brutal company. Once again in the open air, Alfred
breathed more freely.
"O, sir," he said, grasping the hand of the individual who had
appeared so opportunely--"you have saved me from my last temptation,
into which I was led so naturally, that I had not an idea of danger.
If I had fallen then, as I fear I should have fallen but for you, I
must have gone down, rapidly, to irretrievable ruin. How can I
express to you the grateful emotions that I now feel?"
"Express them not to me, young man," the stranger said, in a solemn
voice; "but to him, who in his merciful providence, sent me just at
the right moment to meet your last extremity. Look up to him, and,
whenever tempted, let your conscious weakness repose in his
strength, and no evil power can prevail against you. Be true to the
resolution of this hour--_to your pledge_--to those who have claims
upon you, for such, I know there must be, and you shall yet fill
that position of usefulness in society, which no one else but you
can occupy. And now let me advise you to go home, and ponder well
this act, and your future course. No matter how dark all may now
seem, light will spring up. If you are anxious to walk in a right
path, and to minister to those who have claims upon you, the way
will be made plain. This encouragement I can give you with
confidence; for twelve months ago, _I_ trembled on the brink of
ruin, as _you_ have just been trembling. _I_ was once a slave to the
same wild infatuation that has held you in bondage. Hope, then, with
a vigorous hope, and that hope will be a guarantee for your future
elevation!"
And so saying, the stranger shook the hand of Alfred heartily, and,
turning, walked hastily away.
The young man had proceeded only a few paces when he observed his
old friend and companion, Charles Williams, driving along towards
him. No one had done so much towards corrupting his morals, and
enticing him away from virtue, as that individual. But he had
checked himself in his course of dissipation, long before, while
Alfred had sunk rapidly downward. Years had passed since any
intercourse had taken place between them, for their condition in
life had long been as different as their habits. Charles had entered
into business with his father, and was now active and enterprising,
increasing the income of the firm by his energy and industry.
His eye rested upon Graham, the moment he came near enough to
observe him. There was something familiar about his gait and manner,
that attracted the young man's attention. At first, he did not
distinguish, through the disguise that sickness and self-imposed
poverty had thrown over Alfred, his old companion. But, suddenly, as
he was about passing, he recognised him, and instantly reined up his
horse.
"It is only a few minutes since I was thinking about you, Alfred,"
he said. "How are you? But you do not look well. Have you been
sick?"
"I have been very ill, lately," Alfred Graham replied, in a mournful
tone; former thoughts and feelings rushing back upon him in
consequence of this unexpected interview, and quite subduing him.
"I am really sorry to hear it," the young man said, sympathizingly.
"What has been the matter?"
"A slow fever. This is the first time I have been out for weeks."
"A ride, then, will be of use to you. Get up, and let me drive you
out into the country. The pure air will benefit you, I am sure."
For a moment or two, Alfred stood irresolute. He could not believe
that he had heard aright.
"Come," urged Williams. "We have often ridden before, and let us
have one more ride, if we should never go out again together. I wish
to have some talk with you."
Thus urged, Alfred, with the assistance of Charles Williams, got up
into the light wagon, in which the latter was riding, and in a
moment after was dashing off with him behind a spirited horse.
It was on the morning of a day, nearly a week previous to this time,
that Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood,--for Anna and Mary
Graham's old friend had become a married woman--entered the store of
Mrs.--on Chestnut-street, for the purchase of some goods.
While one of the girls in attendance was waiting upon her, she
observed a young woman, neatly, but poorly clad, whom she had often
seen there before, come in, and go back to the far end of the store.
In a little while, Mrs.--joined her, and received from her a small
package, handing her some money in return, when the young woman
retired, and walked quickly away. This very operation Mrs. Harwood
had several times seen repeated before, and each time she had felt
much interested in the timid and retiring stranger, a glance at
whose face she had never been able to gain.
"Who is that young woman?" she asked of the individual in
attendance.
"She's a poor girl, that Mrs.--buys fine work from, out of mere
charity, she says."
"Do you know her name?"
"I have heard it, ma'am, but forget it."
"Have you any very fine French worked capes, Mrs.--," asked Mrs.
Harwood, as the individual she addressed came up to that part of the
counter where she was standing, still holding in her hand the small
package which had been received from the young woman. This Mrs.
Harwood noticed.
"O, yes, ma'am, some of the most beautiful in the city."
"Let me see them, if you please."
A box was brought, and its contents, consisting of a number of very
rich patterns of the article asked for, displayed.
"What is the price of this?" asked Mrs. Harwood, lifting one, the
pattern of which pleased her fancy.
"That is a little damaged," Mrs.--replied. "But here is one of the
same pattern," unrolling the small parcel she had still continued to
hold in her hand, "which has just been returned by a lady, to whom I
sent it for examination, this morning."
"It is the same pattern, but much more beautifully wrought," Mrs.
Harwood said, as she examined it carefully. "These are all French,
you say?"
"Of course, ma'am. None but French goods come of such exquisite
fineness."
"What do you ask for this?"
"It is worth fifteen dollars, ma'am. The pattern is a rich one, and
the work unusually fine."
"Fifteen dollars! That is a pretty high price, is it not, Mrs.--?"
"O, no, indeed, Mrs. Harwood! It cost me very nearly fourteen
dollars--and a dollar is a small profit to make on such articles."
After hesitating for a moment or two, Mrs. Harwood said--
"Well, I suppose I must give you that for it, as it pleases me."'
And she took out her purse, and paid the price that Mrs.--had
asked. She still stood musing by the side of the counter, when the
young woman who had awakened her interest a short time before,
re-entered, and came up to Mrs.--, who was near her.
"I have a favour to ask, Mrs.--," she overheard her say, in a half
tremulous, and evidently reluctant tone.
"Well, what is it?" Mrs.--coldly asked.
"I want six dollars more than I have got, for a very particular
purpose. Won't you advance me the price of three capes, and I will
bring you in one a week, until I have made it up."
"No, miss," was the prompt and decisive answer--"I never pay any one
for work not done. Pay beforehand, and never pay, are the two worst
kinds of pay!"
All this was distinctly heard by Mrs. Harwood, and her very heart
ached, as she saw the poor girl turn, with a disappointed air, away,
and walk slowly out of the store.
"That's just the way with these people," ejaculated Mrs.--, in
affected indignation, meant to mislead Mrs. Harwood, who, she
feared, had overheard what the young woman had said. "They're always
trying in some way or other, to get the advantage of you."
"How so?" asked Mrs. Harwood, wishing to learn all she could about
the stranger who had interested her feelings.
"Why, you see, I pay that girl a good price for doing a certain kind
of work for me, and the money is always ready for her, the moment
her work is done. But, not satisfied with that, she wanted me, just
now, to advance her the price of three weeks' work. If I had been
foolish enough to have done it, it would have been the last I ever
should have seen of either money, work, or seamstress."
"Perhaps not," Mrs. Harwood ventured to remark.
"You don't know these kind of people as well as I do, Mrs. Harwood.
I've been tricked too often in my time."
"Of course not," was the quiet reply. Then after a pause,
"What kind of sewing did she do for you, Mrs.--?"
"Nothing very particular; only a little fine work. I employ her,
more out of charity, than anything else."
"Do you know anything about her?"
"She's old Graham's daughter, I believe. I'm told he died in the
Alms-house, a few weeks ago."
"What old Graham?" Mrs. Harwood asked, in a quick voice.
"Why, old Graham, the rich merchant that was, a few years ago. Quite
a tumble-down their pride has had, I reckon! Why, I remember when
nothing in my store was good enough for them. But they are glad
enough now to work for me at any price I choose to pay them."
For a few moments, Mrs. Harwood was so shocked that she could not
reply. At length she asked--
"Which of the girls was it that I saw here, just now?"
"That was Mary."
"Do you know anything of Anna?"
"Yes. She stands in a store in Second-street."
"And Ellen?"
"Married to a drunken, worthless fellow, who abuses and half starves
her. But that's the way; pride must have a fall!"
"Where do they live?" pursued Mrs. Harwood.
"Indeed, and that's more than I know," Mrs.--replied, tossing her
head.
Unable to gain any further information, Mrs. Harwood left the store,
well convinced that the richly-wrought cape, for which she had paid
Mrs.--fifteen dollars, had been worked by the hands of Mary
Graham, for which she received but a mere pittance.
Poor Mary returned home disappointed and deeply troubled in mind.
She had about three dollars in money, besides the two which
Mrs.--had paid her. If the six she had asked for had only been
advanced, as she fondly hoped would be the case, the aggregate sum,
eleven dollars, added to three which Anna had saved, would have
enabled them to purchase a coat and hat for their brother, who would
be ready in a few days to go out. They were anxious to do, this,
under the hope, that by providing him with clothes of a more
respectable appearance than he had been used to wearing, he would be
led to think more of himself, seek better company, and thus be
further removed from danger. At her first interview with Mrs.--,
Mary's heart had failed her--and it was only after she had left the
store and walked some squares homeward, that she could rally herself
sufficiently to return and make her request. It was refused, as has
been seen.
"Did Mrs.--grant your request?" was almost the first question that
Anna asked of her sister that evening, when she returned from the
store.
"No, Anna, I was positively refused," Mary replied, the tears rising
and almost gushing over her cheeks.
"Then we will only have to do the best we can with what little we
have. We shall not be able to get him a new coat; but we can have
his old one done up, with a new collar and buttons,--I priced a pair
of pantaloons at one of the clothing-stores, in Market-street, as I
came up this evening, and the man said three dollars and a half.
They looked pretty well. There was a vest, too, for a dollar. I
heard one of the young men in the store say, two or three days ago,
that he had sold his old hat, which was a very good one, to the
hatter, from whom he had bought a new one--or rather, that the
hatter had taken the old one on account, valued at a dollar. I asked
him a question or two, and learned that many hatters do this, and
sell the old hats at the same that they have allowed for them. One
of these I will try to get,--even if a good deal worn; it will look
far better than the one he has at present."
"In that case, then," Mary said, brightening up, "we can still get
him fitted up respectably. O, how glad I shall be! Don't you think,
sister, that we have good reason to hope for him?"
"I try to think so, Mary. But my heart often trembles with fearful
apprehensions when I think of his going out among his old associates
again. It will be little less than a miracle if he should not fall."
"Don't give way to desponding thoughts, sister. Let us hope so
strongly for the best, that our very hope shall compass its own
fruition. He cannot, he must not, go back!"
Anna did not reply. Her own feelings were inclined to droop and
despond, but she did not wish to have her sister's droop and despond
likewise. One reason for her saddened feelings arose from the fact,
that she had a painful consciousness that she should not long be
able to retain her present situation. Her health was sinking so
rapidly, that it was only by the aid of strong resolutions, which
lifted her mind up and sustained her in spite of bodily weakness,
that she was at all enabled to get through with her duties. This she
was conscious could not last long.
On the next morning, when she attempted to rise from her bed, she
became so faint and sick that she was compelled to lie down again.
The feeling of alarm that instantly thrilled through her bosom, lest
she should no longer be able to minister to the wants of her mother,
and especially of her brother at this important crisis in his life,
acted as a stimulant to exhausted nature, and endowed her with a
degree of artificial strength that enabled her to make another and
more successful effort to resume her wearying toil.
But so weak did she feel, even after she had forced herself to take
a few mouthfuls of food at breakfast time, that she lingered for
nearly half an hour longer than her usual time of starting in order
to allow her system to get a little braced up, so that she could
stand the long walk she had to take.
"Good by, brother," she said in a cheerful tone, coming up to the
bed upon which Alfred lay, and stooping down and kissing him. "You
must try and sit up as much as you can to-day."
"Good by, Anna. I wish you didn't have to go away and stay so long."
To this, Anna could not trust herself to reply. She only pressed
tightly the hand she held in her own, and then turned quickly away.
It was nearly three quarters of an hour later than the time the
different clerks were required to be at the store, when Anna came
in, her side and head both paining her badly, in consequence of
having walked too fast.
"It's three quarters of an hour behind the time," the storekeeper
said, with a look and tone of displeasure, as he drew out his watch.
"I can't have such irregularity in my store, Miss Graham. This is
the third time within a few days, that you have come late."
A reply instantly rose to Anna's tongue, but she felt that it would
be useless--and would, perhaps, provoke remarks deeply wounding to
her feelings. She paused, therefore, only a moment, with a bowed
head, to receive her rebuke, and then passed quickly, and with a
meek, subdued air, to her station behind the counter. There were
some of her fellow-clerks who felt for and pitied Anna--there were
others who experienced a pleasure in hearing her reproved.
All through that day, with only the respite of some ten or fifteen
minutes, when she retired to eat alone the frugal repast of bread
and cold meat that she had brought with her for her dinner, did Anna
stand behind the shop-man's counter, attending to his customers with
a cheerful air and often a smiling countenance. She spoke to no one
of the pain in her breast, back, and side; and none of those around
her dreamed that, from extreme lassitude, she could scarcely stand
beside the counter.
To her, suffering as she did, the hours passed slowly and heavily
away. It seemed as if evening would never come--as if she would have
to yield the struggle, much as she strove to keep up for the sake of
those she loved.
But even to the weary, the heavy laden, and the prisoner, the slow
lingering hours at length pass on, and the moment of respite comes.
The shadows of evening at last began to fall dimly around, and Anna
retired from her position of painful labour, and took her way
homeward. But not even the anticipation of speedily joining those
she loved, had power so to buoy up her spirits, that her body could
rise above its depressed and weakened condition. Her weary steps
were slowly taken, and it seemed to her that she should never be
able to reach home. Many, very many depressing thoughts passed
through her mind as she proceeded slowly on her homeward way. The
condition of her sister Ellen troubled her exceedingly. About
one-third of her own and Mary's earnings were required to keep her
and her little ones from absolute suffering; and Mary, like herself,
she too plainly perceived to be rapidly sinking under her burdens.
"What is to be done when we fail, heaven only knows!" she murmured,
as a vivid consciousness of approaching extremity arose in her mind.
As she said this, the idea of her brother presented itself, with the
hope that he would now exert for them a sustaining and supporting
energy--that he would be to them at last a brother. But this
thought, that made her heart leap in her bosom, she put aside with
an audible--
"No,--no,--Do not rest on such a feeble hope!"
At last her hand was upon the latch, and she lifted it and entered.
"I am glad to see you home again, Anna," Alfred said, with an
expression of real pleasure and affection; as she came in.
"And I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, brother,"
Anna replied, her gloomy thoughts at once vanishing. "How do you
feel now?"
"O, I feel much better, sister. In a few days I hope I shall be able
to go out. But how are you? It seems to me that you do not look
well."
"I do feel very much fatigued, Alfred," Anna said, while her tone,
in spite of her effort to make it appear cheerful, became sad. "We
are not permitted in our store to sit down for a moment, and I get
so tired by night that I can hardly keep up."
"But surely, Anna, you do not stand up all day long."
"Yes. Since I left this morning, I have been standing every moment,
with the exception of the brief period I took to eat my dinner."
This simple statement smote upon the heart of the young man, and
made him silent and thoughtful. He felt that, but for his neglect of
duty--but for his abandonment of himself to sensual and besotting
pleasures, this suffering, this self-devotion need not be.
Anna saw that what she had said was paining the mind of her brother,
and she grieved that she had been betrayed into making any allusion
to herself. To restore again the pleased expression to Alfred's
countenance, she dexterously changed the subject to a more cheerful
one, and was rewarded for her effort by seeing his eye again
brighten and the smile again playing about his lips.
Instead of sitting down after tea and assisting Mary with her
embroidery, as she usually did, Anna took a book and read aloud for
the instruction and amusement of all; but most for the sake of
Alfred-that he might feel with them a reciprocal pleasure, and thus
be enabled to perceive that there was something substantial to fall
back upon, if he would only consent to abandon the bewildering and
insane delights to which he had given himself up for years. The
effect she so much desired was produced upon the mind of her
brother. He did, indeed, feel, springing up within him, a new-born
pleasure,--and wondered to himself how he could so long have strayed
away from such springs of delight, to seek bitter waters in a
tangled and gloomy wilderness.
When the tender good-night was at last said, and Mary stretched her
wearied limbs in silent thoughtfulness beside her sister, there was
a feeble hope glimmering in the dark and gloomy abyss of doubt and
despondency that had settled upon her mind--a hope that her brother
would go forth from his sick chamber a changed man. On this hope,
fancy conjured up scenes and images of delight, upon which her mind
dwelt in pleased and dreamy abstraction, until sleep stole upon her,
and locked up her senses.
When she awoke, it was with the same sinking sensation that she had
experienced on the morning previous, and, indeed, on every morning
for many months past. The remembrance of the rebuke she had received
on the day before for being late at her place of business, acted as
a kind of stimulant to arouse her to exertion, so as to be able to
get off in time. It was, however, a few minutes past the hour when
she entered the store, the owner of which looked at his watch,
significantly, as she did so.
This day passed, as the previous one had, in pain and extreme
weariness--and so did the next, and the next, the poor girl's
strength failing her too perceptibly. During this time, Alfred's
coat had been repaired, a pair of pantaloons and a vest bought for
him, and also a second-hand hat of very respectable appearance--all
ready so soon as he should be strong enough to venture out. How
anxiously, and yet in fear and trembling, did the sisters look
forward to that period, which was to strengthen their feeble hopes,
or scatter them to the winds!
"I do really feel very ill," Anna said, sinking back upon her
pillow, after making an attempt to rise, one morning some four or
five days after that on which Mary has been represented as
endeavouring to get an advance from Mrs.--.
"What is the matter?" Mary inquired kindly.
"My head aches most violently--and grows confused so soon as I
attempt to rise."
"Then I would lie still, Anna."
"No, I must be up, and getting ready to go to the store."
"I wouldn't go down to the store, if I were you, Anna. You had
better rest for a day."
"I cannot afford to lose a day," Anna said, again rising in bed, and
sitting upright, until the swimming in her head, that commenced upon
the least motion, had subsided. Then she got out upon the floor, and
stood for a few moments, while her head seemed reeling, and she
every instant about to sink down. In a little while this dizziness
went off, but her head throbbed and ached with aggravated violence.
At breakfast, she forced herself to swallow a small portion of food,
although her stomach loathed it; and then, with trembling limbs and
a feeling of faintness, she went out into the open air, and took her
way to the store. The fresh breeze, as it fell coolingly on her
fevered forehead, revived her in a degree; but long ere she had
reached the store her limbs were sinking under her with excessive
fatigue.
"Late again, miss--" said her employer, as she came in, with a look
of stern reproof.
"I have not been very well, sir," Anna replied, lifting her pale,
languid face, and looking appealingly into the countenance of the
store-keeper.
"Then you should stay at home altogether, Miss," was is cold
response, as he turned away, leaving her to proceed to her
accustomed station at the counter.
The day happening to be one of unusual activity in business, Anna
was kept so constantly busy, that she could not find a moment in
which to relieve the fatigue she felt by even leaning on the
counter. Customer after customer came and went, and box after box
was taken from, and replaced again upon the shelves, in what seemed
to her an endless round. Sometimes her head ached so violently, that
it was with difficulty she could see to attend correctly to her
business. And sometimes she was compelled to steady herself by
holding to the counter to prevent sinking to the floor, from a
feeling of faintness, suddenly passing over her. Thus she held
bravely on, under the feeble hope that her indisposition, as she
tried mentally to term it, would wear off.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that the fever which had
been very high all through the day, began to subside. This symptom
she noticed with an emotion of pleasure, as indicating a healthy
reaction in her system.
It was but half an hour after, that she sunk, fainting, to the
floor, at her place beside the counter. When the fever abated,
exhausted nature gave way.
For nearly an hour she remained insensible. And it was nearly two
hours before she had so far recovered as to be able to walk, when
she was suffered to go away unattended. It was seven o'clock, when,
with a face almost as white as ashes, and nearly sinking to the
ground with weakness, she arrived at home, and opening the door,
slowly entered.
"O, Anna! What ails you?" exclaimed her mother.
"I feel very sick," the poor girl replied, sinking into a chair.
"But where is Alfred?" she asked, in a quicker tone, in which was a
strong expression of anxiety, as she glanced her eye about the room,
in a vain search for him.
"He has walked out," Mary said.
"Has he!" ejaculated Anna. "How long has he been away?"
"It is now nearly four hours,'" Mary said, endeavouring to conceal
the distress she felt, in pity for her sister, who was evidently
quite ill.
"Four hours!" exclaimed Anna, her face blanching to still whiter
hue. "Four hours! And do you not know where he is?"
"Indeed we do not, Anna. He went out to take a short walk, and said
he would not be gone more than ten or twenty minutes."
Anna did not reply, but turned slowly away, and entering her
chamber, threw herself exhausted upon her bed, feeling so utterly
wretched, that she breathed an audible wish that she might die. In
about ten minutes a carriage stopped at the door; and in a moment
after, amid the rattling of departing wheels, Alfred entered,
looking better and happier than he had looked for a long, long time.
A single glance told the mother and sister that all was right.
"O, brother! How could you stay away so long?" Mary said, springing
to his side, and grasping tightly his arm.
"I did not expect, when I walked out, that it would be so long
before I returned, Mary," he replied, kissing her cheek
affectionately. "But I met with an old, though long estranged
friend, who seeing that I had been ill, and needed fresh air,
insisted on taking me out into the country in his carriage. I could
but consent. I was, however, so weak, as to be obliged to go to bed,
when about three miles from the city, and lie there for a couple of
hours. But I feel well, very well now; and have some good news to
tell you. But where is Anna?"
"She has just come in, and gone up to her chamber. I do not think
her at all well to-night," Mary said.
"Poor girl! She is sacrificing herself for the good of others,"
Alfred remarked, with tenderness and interest.
"Shall I call her down?" Mary asked.
"O, yes,--by all means."
Mary went up and found her sister lying across the bed, with her
face buried in a pillow.
"Anna! Anna!" she said, taking hold of her and shaking her gently.
Anna immediately arose, and looking wildly around her, muttered
something that her sister could not comprehend.
"Anna, brother's come home."
But she did not seem to comprehend her meaning.
The glaring brightness of Anna's eyes, and her flushed cheeks,
convinced Mary that all was not right. Stepping to the head of the
stairs, she called to Alfred, who instantly came up.
"Here is Alfred, Anna," she said, as she re-entered the chamber,
accompanied by her brother.
For a moment or two, Anna looked upon him with a vacant stare, and
then closing her eyes, sunk back upon the bed, murmuring
"It is all over--all over."
"What is all over, Anna?" her sister asked.
"What is all over?" the sick girl responded, in a sharp, quick tone,
rising suddenly, and staring at Mary with a fixed look. "Why, it's
all over with him! Havn't I drained my heart's blood for him? Havn't
I stood all day at the counter for his sake, when I felt that I was
dying? But it's all over now! He is lost, and I shall soon be out of
this troublesome world!"
And then the poor half-conscious girl, covered her face with her
hands and sobbed aloud.
"Don't do so, dear sister!" Alfred said, pressing up to the bedside,
and drawing his arm around her. "Don't give way so! You won't have
to stand at the counter any longer. I am Alfred--your brother--your
long lost, but restored brother, who will care for you and work for
you as you have so long cared for and worked for him. Take courage,
dear sister! There are better and happier days for you. Do not give
up now, at the very moment when relief is at hand."
Anna looked her brother in the face for a few moments, steadily, as
her bewildered senses gradually returned, and she began to
comprehend truly what he said, and that it was indeed her brother
who stood thus before her, and thus appealed to her with
affectionate earnestness.
"O, Alfred," the almost heart-broken creature, said--as she bent
forward, and leaned her head upon his bosom--"Heaven be praised, if
you are really and truly in earnest in what you say!"
"I am most solemnly in earnest, dear sister!" the young man said,
with fervency and emphasis. "Since I saw you this morning, I have
signed my name to the total abstinence pledge, and I will die before
that pledge shall be broken! And that is not all. I met Charles
Williams immediately after that act, and have had a long interview
with him. He confessed to me that he had often felt that he was much
to blame for having first introduced me into dissipated company, and
that he now desired to aid me in reforming and assisting my mother
and sisters, if I would only try and abandon my past evil courses. I
responded most gladly to his generous interest, and he then told me,
that if I would enter his and his father's store as a clerk, he
would make my salary at once a thousand dollars per annum. Of course
I assented to the arrangement with thankfulness. Dear mother! Dear
sisters! There is yet, I trust, a brighter day in store for you."
"May our Heavenly Father cause these good resolutions to abide for
ever, my son!" Mrs. Graham, who had followed her children up stairs,
said, with tearful earnestness.
"He will cause them to abide, mother, I know that he, will," Alfred
replied.
Just at that moment some one entered below--immediately after quick
feet ascended the stairs, and Ellen bounded into the room.
"O, I have such good news to tell!" she exclaimed, panting for
breath as she entered. "My husband has joined the reformers! I felt
so glad that I had to run over and let you know. O, aint it good
news, indeed!" And the poor creature clapped her hands together in
an ecstacy of delight.
"It is truly good news, my child," Mrs. Graham said, as she drew her
arm about the neck of Ellen. "And we too have glad tidings. Alfred
has joined them also, and has got a situation at a thousand dollars
a year."
Ellen, who had always loved her brother, tenderly, notwithstanding
his vile habit of life, turned quickly towards him, and flinging her
arms about his neck, said while the tears gushed from her eyes,
"Dear brother! I have never wholly despaired of this hour. Truly, my
cup of joy is full and running over!"
It was about eleven o'clock on the next day, as Mary and her mother
sat conversing by the side of the bed upon which lay Anna, now too
ill to sit up, that a knock was heard below. Mrs. Graham went down
and opened the door, when an elegantly dressed lady entered, calling
her by name as she did so, at the same time asking for Anna and
Mary.
She was shown up stairs by the mother, who did not recognise her,
although both voice and face seemed familiar. On entering the
chamber, Mary turned to her and exclaimed--
"Mary Williams! Is it possible!"
"And Mary Graham, is it indeed possible that I see you
thus!"--(kissing her)" And Anna--is that pale, worn face, the face of
my old friend and companion, Anna Graham?" And she bent down over
the bed and kissed the lips and cheek of the sick girl, tenderly,
while her eyes grew dim with tears. "How changed in a few short
years!" she added, as she took a proffered chair. "Who could have
dreamed, seven years ago, that we should ever meet thus!"
In a short time, as the first shock and surprise of meeting passed
off, Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood, entered into a serious
conversation with Mrs. Graham, and her daughters, in reference to
the past, the present, and the future. After learning all that she
could of their history since their father's failure, which was
detailed without disguise by Mary--Anna was too feeble to
converse--Mrs. Harwood turned to Mary and asked suddenly--
"Do you know this cape, Mary?" alluding to one she had on.
"O, yes--very well."
"You worked it, did you not?"
"Yes."
"For what price?"
"Two dollars."
"Is it possible! I bought it of Mrs.--for French, and paid her for
it fifteen dollars."
"Fifteen dollars!" ejaculated Mary, in surprise. "How shamefully
that woman has imposed upon me! During the last two years, I have
worked at least one hundred capes for her, each of which brought me
in only two dollars. No doubt she has regularly sold them for French
goods, at from ten to fifteen dollars apiece."
"No doubt of it. I, myself, have bought several from her during that
time at high prices, all of which may have been worked by you. I saw
you in her store a few days ago, but did not recognise you, although
your appearance, as it did several times here before, attracted my
attention. I had my suspicions, after I had learned from Mrs.--who
you were, that you had wrought this cape, and from having overheard
you ask her for an advance of six dollars, as the price of three
capes, was pretty well satisfied that two dollars was all you
received for it. I at once determined to seek you out, and try to
aid you in your severe struggle with the world. It was only last
evening that I learned from my brother where you lived--and I also
learned, what rejoiced my heart, that there was about occurring a
favourable change in your circumstances. If, however, your health
should permit, and your inclination prompt you to do so, I will take
care that you get a much better price for any capes that you may
hereafter work. They are richly worth ten and twelve dollars apiece,
and at that price, I have no doubt but that I can get sales for
many."
"Bless you, Mary! Bless you!" Anna said, smiling through gushing
tears, as she rose up in the bed, and bent over towards her old
friend and companion. "Your words have fallen upon my heart like a
healing balsam!"
Mrs. Harwood came forward, and received the head of Anna upon her
bosom, while she drew an arm round her waist, and bent down and
pressed her with tenderness and affection.
A better day had truly dawned upon this ruined and deeply afflicted
family. Mrs. Harwood and her brother continued to be their steady
friends. For a year Alfred remained in his new situation as an
efficient clerk, and at the end of that time had his salary
advanced. During that period, Mary, and Anna, whose health had
become measurably restored, employed all their spare time in
embroidery, which, at the excellent prices which, through the aid of
Mrs. Harwood, they were enabled to get for their really beautiful
work, brought in a handsome addition to their brother's earnings,
and this enabled them to live in independence, comfort and
respectability. As for Ellen, her husband had become truly a
reformed man, and provided for her comfortably.
It is now nearly two years since this happy change took place, and
there is every appearance that another and a still happier one is
about to occur in reference to Anna. Charles Williams is seen very
often, of late, riding out with her and attending her to public
places. The reader can easily guess the probable result. If there;
is not a wedding-party soon, then appearances, in this case at
least, are very deceptive.
THE RUM-SELLER'S DREAM.
"HOW much have you taken in to-day, Sandy?" asked a modern
rum-seller of his bar-tender, after the doors and windows of his
attractive establishment were closed for the night.
"Only about a dollar, Mr. Graves. I never saw such dull times in my
life."
"Only about a dollar! Too bad! too bad! I shall be ruined at this
rate."
"I really don't know what ails the people now. But 'spose it's these
blamenation temperance folks that's doin' all the mischief."
"We must get up something new, Sandy;--something to draw attention
to our house."
"So I've been a thinkin'. Can't we get George Washington Dixon to
walk a plank for us? That would draw crowds, you know; and then
every feller almost that we got in here would take a drink."
"We can't get him, Sandy. He's secured over at the--. But, any
how, the people are getting up to that kind of humbuggery; and I'm
afraid, that, like the Indian's gun, it would cost in the end more
than it came to."
"Couldn't we get a maremaid?"
"A mermaid?"
"Yes, a maremaid. You know they had one in town t'other day. It
would be a prime move, if we could only do it. We might fix her up
here, just back of where I stand, so that every feller who called to
see it would have to come up to the bar, front-face. There'd be no
backing out then, you know, without ponying up for a drink. No one
would be mean enough, after seeing a real maremaid for nothing, to
go away without shelling out a fip for a glass of liquor."
"Nonsense, Sandy! Where are we to get a mermaid?"
"Where did they get that one from?"
"That was brought from Japan; and was a monkey's head and body sewed
on to a fish's tail,--so they say;"
"Well, can't we send to Japan as well as any one? And as to its
being a monkey's head on a fish's tail, that's no concern. It would
only make a better gull-trap."
"And wait some two years before it arrived? Humph! If that's the
only thing that will save me, I shall go to the dogs in spite of
the--"
"Don't swear, Mr. Graves. It's a bad habit, though I am guilty of it
myself,"--the bar-tender said, with vulgar familiarity. "But, why
need we wait two years for a maremaid?"
"Did you ever study geography, Sandy?"
"Jografy?"
"Yes."
"What's that?"
"Why, the maps, at school."
"I warn't never to school."
"Then you don't know how far Japan is from here?"
"Not exactly. But 'spose it's some twenty or thirty miles."
"Twenty or thirty miles! It's t'other side of the world!"
"O, dear! Then we can't get a maremaid, after all. But 'spose we try
and get a live snake."
"That won't do."
"Why not?"
"A live snake is no great curiosity."
"Yes, but you know we could call it some outlandish name; or say
that it was dug up fifty feet below the ground, out of a solid rock,
and was now all alive and doin' well."
"It wouldn't do, Sandy."
"Now I think it would, prime."
"It might if these temperance folks were not so confounded thick
about here, interfering with a man and preventing him making an
honest living. If it wasn't for them, I should be clearing five or
ten dollars a day, as easy as nothing."
"Confound them! I say," was Sandy's hearty response; while he
clenched his fist, and ground his teeth together. "If I had a rope
round the necks of every mother's son of 'em, wouldn't I serve 'em
as old Julus Cesar did the Hottentots? Wouldn't I though! But what
could they say or do about it, Mr. Graves."
"They'd pretty quick put it on to us in their temperance papers
about the good device we had. They'd talk pretty fast about the
serpent that seduced Eve, and all that. No, blast 'em! A snake won't
do, Sandy."
"How will a monkey do?"
"A monkey might answer, if he was a little cuter than common. But we
can't get one handy."
"Try a band of music."
"That would soon wear out; and then we should have to get up
something else, and the people would suspect us of trying to gull
them."
"Then what is to be done, Mr. Graves? We can never stand it at this
rate."
"I'm sure I don't know." And the rum-seller leaned upon his bar, and
looked quite sad and dejected.
"I wonder what has become of Bill Riley?" he at length asked, rising
up with a sigh. "He hasn't been here for a week."
"Dick Hilton told me to-day that he believed he had joined the
teetotallers."
"I feared as much. He was one of my very best customers; worth a
clear dollar and a half a week to me, above the cost of the liquors,
the year round. And Tom Jones? Where can he be?"
"Gone, too."
"Tom Jones?" in surprise.
"It's a fact. They got him on the same night Bill Riley was caught."
"Foolish fellow, to go and throw himself away in that style! Them
temperance men will get from him every dollar he can earn, to build
Temperance Halls, and get up processions, and buy clothes for lazy,
loafing vagabonds, that had a great sight better be sent to the
poorhouse. It is too bad. My very blood boils when I think what
fools men are."
"And there's Harry Peters,--Dick Hilton told me that he'd gone,
too."
"Not Harry Peters, surely!"
"Yes. He hasn't been near our house for several days.
"Well, something must be done to get up a new set of customers, or
we are gone. We must invent some new drink."
"What shall it be?"
"O, that's no consequence. The name must be taking."
"Have you thought of one?"
"No, Can't you think of something?"
"Well--Let me see. But I'm sure I don't know what would do."
"What do you think of 'Bank Stock?' That would attract attention."
"I can't say that I like it."
"Or 'Greasers?'"
"Most too vulgar."
"So I think myself. Suppose we call it a 'Mummy?'"
"I'm afraid it wouldn't go. It ought to have 'Imperial,' or
'Nectar,' or something like that about it."
"O, yes, I see your notion. But they've all been used up long ago.
It must be some entirely new name, which, at the same time, will hit
a popular idea. As 'Tariff,' or 'Compromise.'"
"I see now. Well, can't you hammer out something?"
"I must try. Let me see. How will 'Sub-Treasury' do?"
"Capital! 'Graves' Sub-Treasury' will be just the thing. You see,
the young-fellows will say--'Why, what kind of a new drink is this
they've been getting up, down at the Harmony House?'
"'I don't know--What is it?'
"'The Sub-Treasury, they call it.'
"'Have you tried it yet?'
"'No.'
"'Well, come, let's give him a call. Novelty, you know, is the order
of the day.'
"That's the way these matters work, Mr. Graves. But how are you
going to make it?"
"I've not thought of that. But anything will do. Liquor tastes good
to 'em any way you choose to fix it."
"True enough. You can leave that part to me. I'll hatch up something
that will tickle as it goes down, and make 'em wish their throats
were a mile long, that they might taste it all the way."
"Have you tried Graves' new drink yet, Joe?" asked one young man of
another, a day or two after the conversation just noted took place.
"No.--What is it?"
"Sub-Treasury."
"Sub-Treasury? That must be something new. I wonder what it is?"
"I've just been wondering the same thing. Suppose we go down and try
it."
"I was about swearing off from ever tasting another drop of liquor.
But, I believe I will try a 'Sub-Treasury' with you, just for the
fun of the thing."
"Well, come along then."
And so the two started off for the Harmony House.
"Give us a couple of Sub-Treasuries," said one of them as they
entered; and forthwith a couple of glasses filled with mixed
liquors, crushed ice, lemonpeel, and snow-white sugar, were
prepared, and a straw placed in each, through which the young men
"imbibed" the new compound.
"Really, this is fine, Nelson!" said the one, called Joe, smacking
his lips.
"It is, indeed. You'll make your fortune out of this, Graves."
"Do you think so?" the pleased liquor-seller responded, with a broad
smile of satisfaction.
"I've not the least doubt of it," Joe, or Joseph Bancroft, said,--"I
had half resolved to join the temperance society this day. But your
'Sub-Treasury' has shaken my resolution. I shall never be able to do
it now in this world, nor in the next, either, if I can only get you
in the same place with me to make 'Sub-Treasury!' Ha! ha! ha!"
"A Sub-Treasury," said another young man, coming up to the bar.
"Here, landlord, let us have one of your--what do you call 'em? O,
Sub-Treasuries!" was the request of another.
"Hallo, Sandy! What new-fangled stuff is this you've got?" broke in
a half-drunken creature, staggering up, and holding on to the
bar-railing. "Let us have one, will you?"
Both Sandy and Graves were now kept as busy as they could be, mixing
liquors and serving customers. The advertisement which had been
inserted in two or three of the morning papers, in the following
words, had answered fully the rum-sellers' expectations.
"Drop in at the HARMONY HOUSE, and try a 'Sub-Treasury.' 'What is a
Sub-Treasury?' you ask. Come and see for yourself, and taste for
yourself. Old Graves' word for it, you'll never want anything else
to wet your whistle with, as long as you live."
All through the forenoon the run was kept up steadily, dozens of new
faces appearing at the bar, and cheering the heart of the
tavern-keeper with the prospect of a fresh set of customers. About
two o'clock, succeeded a pause.
"That works admirably,--don't it, Sandy?" said Mr. Graves, as soon
as the bar-room was perfectly clear, for the first time, since
morning.
"Indeed, it does. They havn't given me time to blow. But aint some
folks easily gulled?"
"Easily enough, Sandy. This Sub-Treasury they think something
wonderful. But it's only rum after all, by another name, and in a
little different form. A 'cobbler,' or a 'julep' has lost its
attractions; but get up some new name for an old compound, and you
go all before the wind again."
"I think we might tempt some of the new converts to temperance with
this. Bill Riley, for instance."
"No doubt. I'll see if I can't come across Bill; he is too good a
customer to lose."
And so saying, Mr. Graves retired from the bar-room, to get his
dinner, feeling better satisfied with himself than he had been for a
long time. After eating heartily, and drinking freely, he went into
his handsomely furnished parlour, and reclined himself upon a sofa,
thinking still, and with a pleasurable emotion that warmed his
bosom, of the success of his expedient to draw custom. He had been
lying down, it seemed to him, but a few moments, when a tap at the
door, to which he responded with a loud "come in," was followed by
the entrance of a thin, pale, haggard-looking creature, her clothes
soiled, and hanging loosely, and in tatters about her attenuated
body. By the hand she held a little girl, from whose young face had
faded every trace of childhood's happy expression. She, too, was
thin and pale, and had a fixed, stony look, of hopeless suffering.
They came up to where he still lay upon the sofa, and stood looking
down upon him in silence.
"Who are you? What do you want?" the rum-seller ejaculated, raising
himself up with a strange feeling about his heart.
"The wife and child of one of your victims! He is dying, and wishes
to see you."
"Who is he? What is his name?" asked the tavern-keeper, while his
face grew pale, and his lips quivered.
"William Riley," was the mournful reply.
"Go home, woman! Go home! I cannot go with you! What good can I do
your husband?"
"You must go! You shall go!" shrieked the wretched being, suddenly
grasping the arm of Mr. Graves, with a tight grip, while her hand
seemed to burn his arm, as if it were a hand of fire.
A sudden and irresistible impulse to obey the call of the dying man
came over him, and as he arose mechanically, the mother and her
child turned towards the door, and he followed after them. On
emerging into the street, he became conscious of a great and sudden
change in external nature. On retiring from his bar an hour before,
the sun was shining in a sky of spotless beauty. Now the heavens
were shrouded in dense masses of black clouds that were whirling
here and there in immense eddies, or careering across the sky as if
driven by a fierce and mighty wind. But below, all was hushed and
pulseless as the grave; and the stagnant air felt like the hot
vapour over an immense furnace. The tavern-keeper would have paused
and returned so soon as he became conscious of this fearful change,
portending the approach of a wild storm; but his conductors seemed
to know his thoughts; and turning, each fixed upon him a stern and
threatening look, whose strange power he could neither resist nor
understand.
"Come," said the mother in a hollow, husky voice; and then turned
and moved on again, while the tavern-keeper followed impulsively.
They had proceeded thus, for only a few paces, when a fierce light
glanced through half the sky, followed by a deafening crash, under
the concussion of which the earth trembled as if shaken to its very
centre. The tavern-keeper again paused in shrinking irresolution,
and again the woman's emphatic,
"Come!" caused him to follow his guides mechanically.
Soon the storm burst over their heads, and raged with a wild fury,
such as he had never before witnessed. The wind howled through the
streets and alleys of the city, with the roar of thunder; while the
deep reverberations following every broad sheet of lightning that
blazed through the whole circle of the heavens, was as the roar of a
dissolving universe. Amid all this, the rain fell like a deluge. But
the rum-seller's guides paused not, and he kept steadily onwards
after them, shrinking now into the shelter of the houses, and now
breasting the fierce storm with a momentary desperate resolution.
Through street after street, lined on either side with wretched
tenements that seemed tottering and just ready to fall, and through
alley after alley, where squalid misery had hid itself from the eye
of general observation, did they pass, in what seemed to Mr. Graves
an interminable succession; At last the woman and her child paused
at the door of an old, wretched-looking frame house, that appeared
just ready to sink to the ground with decay.
"This is the place, sir. Come in! Your victim would see you before
he dies," the woman said in a deep voice that made a chill run
through every nerve, at the same time that she looked him sternly
and with an expression of malignant triumph in the face.
Unable to resist the impulse that drove him onward, the rum-seller
entered the house.
"See there, sir! Look! Behold the work of your own hands!" exclaimed
the woman with startling emphasis, as he found himself in a room,
with a few old rags in one corner of it for a bed, upon which lay,
in the last sad agonies of dissolution, his old customer, Bill
Riley, who, he had been that day informed by his bar-keeper, had
joined the temperance society.
"There, sir! See there!" she continued, grasping his arm, and
dragging him up to where the miserable wretch lay. "Look at
him!--Bill--Bill!" she continued, stooping down, while she still
held tightly the rum-seller's arm, and shaking the dying man.
"Bill--Bill! Here he is. You said you wanted to see him! Now curse
him, Bill! Curse him with your dying breath!" And the woman's voice
rose to a wild shriek.
The wretch, thus rudely and suddenly called back from the brink of
death into a painful consciousness of existence, half rose up, and
stared wildly around him for a moment or two.
"Here he is, Bill! Here he is!" resumed his wife, again shaking him
violently.
"Who? Who?" inquired the dying man.
"Why, the rum-seller, who robbed you of your hard earnings, that he
might roll in wealth and feast daily on luxuries, while your wife
and children were starving! Here he is. Curse him now, with your
dying breath! Curse him, I say, Bill Riley! Curse him!"
"Who? Who?" eagerly asked the wretched being, a thrill of new life
seeming to flash through his exhausted frame--"Old Graves? Where is
he?"
"Here he is, Bill! Here he is! Don't you see him?"
"Ah, yes! I see him now!" And Riley fixed his eyes, that seemed, to
the rum-seller, to burn and flash like balls of fire, sending off
vivid scintillations, upon him with a long and searching stare.
"Ah, yes," he continued, "this is old Graves, the rum-seller, who
has sent more men to hell, and more widows and orphans to the
poor-house, than any other man living. How do you do, sir?" rising
up still more in his bed, and grasping the unwilling hand of the
tavern-keeper, which he clenched hard, and shook with superhuman
strength. "How are you, old fellow? I'm glad to see you once more in
this world. We shall have a jolly time in the next, though, shan't
we?"
A smile of malignant triumph flitted for a moment over the livid
face of Riley. Then its expression brightened into one of
intelligence.
"Look here," he said, and brought his lips close to the ear of
Graves. Then in a deep whisper, he breathed the words,
"Sub-Treasury!"
The rum-seller started, suddenly, and grew paler than ever.
Instantly a loud, unearthly laugh rang through the room, causing the
blood to curdle about his heart.
"Ha! ha! ha! I thought that chord could be touched! Ha! ha! That was
a capital idea, wasn't it, old fellow? But you were too late for
Bill Riley. You thought the temperance men had him. But that was a
little mistake."
The sweat already stood in large drops on the pale face of the
tavern-keeper, and his limbs trembled like the quivering aspen.
"Horrible!" he murmured, closing his eyes, to shut out the scene.
"Not half so horrible as the place where I was, just before you came
in, Mr. Graves," said Riley in a calmer voice. "And where do you
think that was?"
"In hell, I suppose," replied the rum-seller, with the energy of
desperation.
"Exactly," was the calm reply. "And what do you think I heard and
saw there? Let me tell you. I was dead for a little while, and found
myself in strange quarters, as you will say, when you get there. I
always thought devils had long tails, and cloven feet, horns, and
all that kind of thing. But that's a vulgar error. They are nothing
but wicked men like you, who in this world have taken delight in
injuring others. You will make a first-rate devil! Ha! ha! I heard
'em say so, and wishing you were only there to help them work out
their evil intentions.
"There are a great many little hells there, all grouped into one
immense hell, like societies here, grouped into one larger society
or nation. And there, as here, every smaller society is engaged in
doing some particular thing, and all are in one society who love to
do that thing. As for instance, all who, while here, have taken
delight in theft, are there associated together, and are all the
while busy in inventing reasons to put into the heads of thieves
here to justify them in stealing. Murderers, in like manner; and so
rum-sellers. They have a hell all filled with rum-sellers there! I
was let into it for a little while to see what was going on, and who
do you think I saw there. Why, old Adams, that died about a month
ago. The old fellow was as lively as a cricket, and as busy as a
bee.
"'How is that prime old chap, Graves?' he asked of me, as soon as he
found out I was there.
"'I havn't seen him for a week,' I replied. 'I have been sick for
that time.'
"'But he's a rum 'un, though, ain't he?' chuckled Adams. 'Many a
scheme he and I have laid to get money out of the grog-drinkers. But
he was always ahead of me. I used, in my early days, to feel a
little compunction when I saw a clever fellow going to ruin. But it
never affected him in the least. All was fish that came into his
net. I wish we had him with us. We want just such scheming devils as
he to help us devise ways and means to circumvent these temperance
men. They'll ruin us, if we don't look out. How were they coming on
when you left?'
"'Carrying everything before them,' I said. 'The rum-sellers are
almost driven to their wit's ends for devices to get customers.'
"'Too bad! Too bad!' ejaculated old Adams. 'I'll turn hell upside
down, but what I'll beat them out.'
"'You'll have to do your prettiest, then, let me tell you, old
fellow,' I rejoined, 'for the temperance cause is going with a
perfect rush. It is a mighty torrent whose course, neither men nor
devils can stay. It moves onward with a power and majesty that
astonishes the world,--and onward it will move, until your hell of
rum-makers and rum-sellers will not be able to find a single point
through which to flow into the world and tempt men with your
infernal devices!'
"O, if you had heard the horrid yell of malignancy which arose, and
echoed through the black chamber of that region of wickedness and
misery, it would have made you shrink into nothingness with terror.
They fairly gnashed on me with their teeth in impotent rage. At
length old Adams got upon a whiskey-still--they have such things in
hell--the pattern was got from there when introduced here, and made
a speech to his associates. From what he said, I found that he had
minute information of all that was going on in this region.
"'Old Graves,' he said--'our very best man, has already been so
reduced in his business by this accursed temperance movement, that
he has recently thought seriously of giving up. This must not be. We
cannot lose him. No mind receives our suggestions more readily than
his.--If he gives up, we lose a host. You all know, that our
influence on earth is powerless, unless we have men to carry out our
plans. If they will not listen to our suggestion--if they will not
become our agents, we can do nothing there. As spiritual existences,
we cannot affect that which is corporeal, except through the
spiritual united with the corporeal--that is, through spiritual
bodies in material bodies. In other words, we can act on men's
minds, and they can do our works on earth for us. Now, seeing that
we can do nothing to stop this temperance movement, except through
the self-love of the rum-sellers and rum-makers, it will never do to
let old Graves fall. We must help him to some new scheme by which to
bring back his diminished custom. Now what shall it be?'
"'Some device that will call attention to his bar-room, is what is
wanted,' remarked one.
"Yes, that is plain enough,' replied old Adams, who seemed to be a
kind of head devil there--'but what shall it be? That's the
question!'
"'Suppose we put him up to getting a woman to walk a plank,'
suggested one.
"'No. That has been tried already; and if it is tried again so soon,
these temperance men will cry, humbug!'
"'How would it do for him to get a pretty girl behind his bar.'
"'That might do. But then, his wife is a sort of religious woman,
and wouldn't let him do it.'
"Couldn't we induce him to poison her, and so get her out of the
way?'
"'No--That's out of the question. He kind of likes the woman too
well for that.'
"'What, then, do you suggest?'
"'Some new drink will be the thing. Something that will tickle the
ear at the same time that it tickles the palate. It will be a great
thing, if, in this matter, we can kill two birds with one stone.
Bring back by some new attraction the wavering ones, and turn the
tide of custom in the direction of our very particular friend Mr.
Graves.'
"'Have you thought of a name for it?'
"'No.'
"'How would Ambrosia do?' suggested one.
"'Not at all,' replied old Adams. 'It aint the thing to catch gulls
now-a-days. And more than that, it isn't something new.'
"'What do you think of Harlequinade?'
"'That might answer; but it's been used, already.'
"'Fiscal agent?'
"'The same objection.'
"'Mummy?'
"'The same.'
"'Cobbler?'
"'Good, but stale.'
"'Greaser?'
"'No'--And Adams shook his head emphatically.
"'Sam Weller?'
"'Been used already.'
"'Veto?'
"'That too.'
"'Hardware?'
"'Likewise.'
"'What do you think of Elevator?'
"'That might do; but still I can't exactly say that I like it. It
should be something to strike the popular idea.'
"'Sub-Treasury, then?'
"That's it, exactly! Sub-Treasury--Sub-Treasury. Let it be called
Sub-Treasury! And now, as I have more power over Graves than any of
you, let me have the managing of him.' And so saying, Adams seemed
to go away, and remain, for a day or two. When he came back, all the
devils gathered around him full of interest to hear of his success.
They greeted him, first, with three wild, infernal cheers, full of
malignant pleasure, and then asked,
"'What news? What news from earth?'
"'Glorious!' was his response. And then another wild yell of triumph
went up.
"'I found Graves,' he went on, 'just the same pliant fool that he
has ever been. He fell into my suggestions at once, and on the very
next day advertised his 'Sub-Treasury.' It took like a charm. I
could tell you of a dozen young fellows just about being caught by
the teetootallers, who couldn't withstand the new temptation. There
was one in particular. His name is Joe Bancroft. Only married about
three years, and almost at the bottom of the hill already. On the
day before 'Sub-Treasury' was announced, he came home sober, for the
first time in six months. His wife, a beautiful young girl when he
married her, but now a thin, pale, heart-broken creature, sat near a
window sewing when he entered. But she did not look up. She heard
him come in--but she could not turn her eyes towards him, for her
heart always grew sicker whenever she saw the sad changes that drink
had wrought upon him.
"For a few moments Joe stood gazing at his young wife, with a
tenderer interest than he had felt for a long time. He saw that she
did not look up, and was conscious of the reason.
"'Sarah,' he at last said, in a voice of affection, coming to her
side.
"'What do you want?' she replied, still without looking up.
"'Look up at me, Sarah,' he said, in a voice that slightly trembled.
"Instantly her work dropped from her hands, and she lifted her eyes
to the face of her husband, and murmured in a low, sad tone,
"'What is it you wish, Joseph?'
"'You look very pale, and very sorrowful, Sarah,' her husband said,
with increasing tenderness of tone and manner.
"It had been so very long since he had spoken to her kindly, or
since he had appeared to take any interest in her, that the first
tenderly uttered word melted down her heart, and she burst into
tears, and leaning her head against him, sobbed long and
passionately.
"With many a kind word, and many a solemn promise of reformation did
the husband soothe the stricken heart of his wife, into which a new
hope was infused.
"'I will be a changed man, after this, Sarah,' he said--
'And then it must go well with us. It seems as if I had been, for
the last year, the victim of insanity. I cannot realize how it is
possible for any one to abandon himself as I have done; to the
neglect of all the most sacred ties and duties that can appertain to
us. How deeply--O, how deeply you must have suffered!'
"'Deeply, indeed, dear husband!--More than tongue can utter,' the
young wife replied, in a solemn tone. 'It has seemed, sometimes, as
if I must die. Day after day, week after week, and month after
month, to see you coming in and going out, as you have done, for
ever intoxicated. To have no kind word or look. No rational
intercourse with one to whom I had yielded up my heart so
confidingly. O, my husband! you know not how sad a trial you have
imposed upon your wife!'
"'Sad--sad, indeed, I am sure it has been, Sarah! But let us try and
forget the past. There is bright sunshine yet for us, and it will
soon, I trust, fall warmly and cheeringly on our pathway.'
"All that day Bancroft remained at home with his wife, renewing his
assurances of reformation, and laying his plans for the future. I
saw all this, and began to fear lest Joe would really get freed from
the toils we had, through the rum-sellers, thrown around him--toils,
that I had felt, sure would soon cause him to fall headlong down
amongst us. I, of course, suggested nothing to him then; for it
would have been of little use. Towards night, his wife proposed that
he should sign the pledge. I was at his ear in a moment--
"'That would be too degrading!' I whispered. 'You have not got quite
so low as that yet.'
"'No, Sarah, I do not wish to sign the pledge,' he at once replied.
"'Why not, dear?'
"'Because, I have always despised this way of binding oneself down
by a written contract, not to do a thing. It is unmanly. My
resolution is sufficient. If I say that I will never drink another
drop, why I won't. But if I were to bind myself by a pledge not to
touch liquor again, I should, never feel a moment's peace, until I
had broken it.'
"These objections I readily infused into his mind, and he at once
adopted them as his own. I had power to do so, because I now
perceived that his love of drink was so strong, that he did not wish
to cut off all chance of ever tasting it again. He, therefore,
wanted specious reasons for not signing the pledge, and with these I
promptly furnished him!
"It was in vain that his wife urged him, even with tears and eager
entreaties to take the pledge: I was too much for her, and made him
firm as a rock in his determination not to sign.
"On the next morning, he parted with his wife, strong in his
resolution to be a reformed man. The pleasant thrill of her parting
kiss, the first he had received for more than a year, lingered in
his memory and encouraged him to abide by his promise. He passed his
accustomed places of resort for liquor, on his way to business, but
without the first desire to enter. I noted all this, and kept myself
busy about him to detect a moment of weakness. Our friend Graves
advertised his 'Sub-Treasury' on that morning. I calculated largely
on the novelty of the idea to win him off. But, somehow or other, he
did not see it. Another young man, one of his companions, did,
however:
"'Have you tried Graves' new drink, yet?' he asked of him about
eleven o'clock, while he was under the influence of a pretty strong
thirst.
"'No, what is it?' he replied, with a feeling of lively interest.
"'Sub-Treasury,' replied his friend.
"'Sub-Treasury! That must be something new! I wonder what it can
be?'
"Into this feeling of interest in knowing what the new drink could
be, I infused a strong desire to taste it.
"'Suppose we go and try some,' suggested his friend.
"'There'll not be the least danger,' I whispered in his ear. 'You
can try it, and refrain from drinking to excess. The evil has been
your drinking too much. There is no harm in moderate drinking. This
decided him, and I retired. I knew, if he tasted, that he was gone.'
"Down he went to the Harmony House;--I was there when he came in. It
would have done your hearts good to have seen with what delight he
sipped the new beverage,--and to have heard him say, as I did, to
Graves;--'I had half resolved to join the temperance society this
day,--but your Sub-Treasury has entirely shaken my resolution. I
shall never be able to do it now in this world, nor in the next
either, if I can only get you in the same place with me to make
Sub-Treasury.' And then he laughed with great glee. One, of course,
did not satisfy him, nor two, nor three. Before dinner-time he was
gloriously drunk, and went staggering home as usual. I could not
resist the inclination to see a little of the fun when he presented
himself to his wife, whose fond hopes were all in the sky again.
Like a bird, she had sung about the house during the morning, her
heart so elated that she could not prevent an outward expression of
the delight she felt. As the hour drew near for her husband's
return, a slight fear would glance through her mind, quickly
dismissed, however;--for she could not entertain the idea for a
moment that his newly-formed resolution could possibly be so soon
broken.
"At last the hour for his accustomed return arrived. She heard him
open the door--and sprung to meet him. One look sufficed to break
her heart. Statue-like she stood for a moment or two, and then sunk
senseless to the floor.
"Other matters calling me away, I staid only to see this delightful
little scene, and then hurried back to the Harmony House, to see if
the run was kept up. Customers came in a steady stream, and crowded
the bar of our worthy friend, whose heart was as light as a feather.
I saw at least half a dozen come in and sip a glass of Sub-Treasury,
who I knew had not tasted liquor for months. I marked them; and
shall be about their path occasionally. But the best thing of all
that I saw, was a reformer break his pledge. He was, years ago, a
noted drunkard, but had been a reformed man for four years. In that
time he had broken up several grog-shops, by reforming all their
customers, and had got, I suppose, not less than five or six hundred
persons to sign the pledge. I had, of course, a particular grudge
against him. It was an exceedingly warm day, and he was uncommonly
thirsty. He was reading the paper, and came across the
'Sub-Treasury' advertisement.
"'Ha! ha! What is this, I wonder?' he said, laughing; some new trick
of the enemy, I suppose.'
"'Look here, what is this Sub-Treasury stuff, that Graves advertises
this morning?' he said, to a young fellow, a protege
of mine, who was more than a match for him.
"'A kind of temperance beverage.' I put it into the fellow's head to
say.
"'Temperance beverage?'
"'Yes. It's made of lemonpeel, and one stuff or other, mixed up with
pounded ice. He's got a tremendous run for it. I know half a dozen
teetotallers who get it regularly. I saw three or four there to-day,
at one time.'
"'Indeed!'
"'It's a fact. Come, won't you go down and try a glass? It's
delightful.'
"'Are you in earnest about it?'
"'Certainly I am. It's one of the most delicious drinks that has
been got up this season.'
"'I don't like to be seen going into such a place.'
"'O, as to that, there is a fine back entrance leading in from
another street, that no one suspects, and a private bar into the
bargain. We can go in and get a drink, and nobody will ever see us.'
"'Well, I don't care if I do,' said the temperance man, 'for I am
very dry.'
"'You're a gone gozzling, my old chap,' I said, as I saw him moving
off. 'I thought I'd get you before long.' Sure enough, the moment he
took the first draught his doom was sealed. His former desire for
liquor came back on him with irresistible power; and before
nightfall, he was so drunk that he went staggering along the street,
to the chagrin and consternation of the teetotallers; but to the
infinite delight of your humble servant.
"And so saying, that malignant fiend, who, while he inhabited a
material body, was called old Billy Adams, stepped down from the
still. Then there arose three loud and long cheers, for Graves, and
his 'Sub-Treasury,' that echoed and re-echoed wildly through that
gloomy prison-house.
"You're much thought of down there, you see," continued Riley, with
a cold grin of irony.--"Adams says, that if this temperance movement
aint stopped soon, they will have to get you among them, and make
you head devil in that department. How would you like that, old
chap, say? How would you like to go now?"
As Riley said this, he threw himself forward, and clasped his thin,
bony fingers around the neck of the rum-seller, with a strong grip.
"How would you like to go now, ha?" he screamed fiercely in his ear,
clenching his hand tighter and still tighter, while his hot breath
melted over the face of Graves in a suffocating vapour. The
struggles of the rum-seller were vigorous and terrible--but the
dying man held on with a superhuman strength. Soon everything around
grew confused, and though still distinctly conscious, it was a
consciousness in the mind of the tavern-keeper of the agonies of
death. This became so terrible to him that he resolved on one last
and more vigorous effort for life. It was made, and the hands of the
dying man broke loose. Instantly starting to his feet, the wretched
dealer in poison for both the bodies and souls of men, found himself
standing in the centre of his own parlour, with the sweat rolling
from his face in large drops.
"Merciful Heaven! And is it indeed a dream?" he ejaculated, panting
with terror and exhaustion.
"A dream--and yet not all a dream," he added, in a few moments, in a
sad, low tone.--"In league with hell against my fellow-men! Can it
indeed be true? But away! away such thoughts!"
Such thoughts, however, could not be driven away. They crowded upon
his mind at every avenue, and pressed inward to the exclusion of
every other idea.
"But I am not in league with evil spirits to do harm to my
fellow-men. I do not wish evil to any one," he argued.
"You _are_ in such evil consociation," whispered a voice within him.
"There are but two great parties in the world--the evil and the
good. No middle ground exists. You are with one of these--working
for the good of your fellow-men, or for their injury. One of these
great parties acts in concert with heaven, the other with hell. On
the side of one stand arrayed good spirits--on the side of the other
evil spirits. Can good spirits be on your side? Would they, for the
sake of gain, take the food out of the mouths of starving children?
Would they put allurements in a brother's way to entice him to ruin?
No! Only in such deeds can evil spirits take delight."
"Then I am on the side of hell?"
"There are but two parties. You cannot be on the side of heaven, and
do evil to your neighbour."
"Dreadful thought! In league with infernal spirits to curse the
human race! Can it be possible Am I really in my senses?"
For nearly half an hour did Graves pace the floor backwards and
forwards, his mind in a wild fever of excitement. In vain did he
try, over and over again, to argue the point against the clearest
and strongest convictions of reason. Look at it as he would, it all
resolved itself into that one bold and startling position, that he
was in league with hell against his fellow-men.
"And now, what shall I do?" was the question that arose in his mind.
"Give up my establishment?"
At that moment, Sandy, the bar-tender, opened the parlour door, and
said with a broad smile--
"The Sub-Treasury is working wonders again! I'm overrun, and want
help."
"I can't come down, just now, Sandy. I'm not very well. You will
have to get along the best you can," Graves replied.
"I don't know what I shall do then, sir: I can't make 'em half as
fast as they are called for."
"Let half of the people go away then," was the cold reply. "I can't
help you any more to-day."
Sandy thought, as he withdrew, that the "old man" must have suddenly
lost his senses. He was confirmed in this idea before the next
morning.
It was past twelve o'clock when the run of custom was over, and
Sandy closed up for the night. As soon as this was done, Mr. Graves
came in for the first time since dinner.
"It's been a glorious day for business," Sandy said, rubbing his
hands. "I've taken in more, than thirty dollars. Lucifer himself
must have put the idea into your head."
"No doubt he did," was the grave reply.
Sandy stared at this.
"Didn't you tell me that Bill Riley had joined the temperance
society?"
"Yes, I did," replied the bar-keeper.
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure, I was told so by one that knew."
"I only wish I was certain of it," was the reply, made half
abstractedly. And then the dealer leaned down upon the bar and
remained in deep thought for a very long time, to the still greater
surprise of Sandy, who could not comprehend what had come over his
employer.
"Aint you well, Mr. Graves," he at length asked, breaking in upon
the rum-seller's painful reverie.
"Well!" he ejaculated, rousing up with a start. "No, I am not well."
"What is the matter, sir?"
"I'm sick," was the evasive response.
"How, sick?" was Sandy's persevering inquiry.
"Sick at heart! O, dear! I wish I'd been dead before I opened a
grog-shop!"--And the countenance of Mr. Graves changed its quiet,
sad expression, to one of intense agony.
Sandy looked at the tavern-keeper with an air of stupid astonishment
for some moments, unable to comprehend his meaning. It was evident
to his mind that Mr. Graves had suddenly become crazed about
something. This idea produced a feeling of alarm, and he was about
retiring for counsel and assistance, when the tavern-keeper roused
himself and said:
"When did you see Bill Riley, Sandy?"
"I saw him yesterday."
"Are you certain?" in a quick, eager tone.
"O yes. I saw him going along on the other side of the street with
two or three fellows that didn't look no how at all like
rum-bruisers."
"I was afraid he was dead," Mr. Graves responded to this, breathing
more freely.
"Dead! Why should you think that?" inquired Sandy, still more (sic)
mistified.
"I had reason for thinking so," was the evasive reply. A pause of
some, moments ensued, when the bar-keeper said--
"I shall have to be stirring bright and early to-morrow morning."
"Why so?"
"We're out of sugar and lemons both. That Sub-Treasury runs on them
'ere articles strong."
"Confound the Sub-Treasury!" Mr. Graves ejaculated, with a strong
and bitter emphasis. Sandy stood again mute with astonishment,
staring into the tavern-keeper's face.
"Sandy," Mr. Graves at length said in a calm, resolute tone, "my
mind is made up to quit selling liquor."
"Quit selling liquor, sir!" exclaimed Sandy, more astonished than
ever. "Quit selling liquor just at this time, when you have made
such a hit?"
"Yes, Sandy, I'm going to quit it. I'm afraid that we rum-sellers
are on the side of hell."
"I never once supposed that we were on the side of heaven," the
bar-keeper replied, half smiling.
"Then what side did you suppose we were on?"
"O, as to that, I never gave the matter a thought. Only, it never
once entered my head that we could claim much relationship with
heaven. Heaven feeds the hungry and clothes the naked. But we take
away both food and clothing, and give only drink. There is some
little difference in this, now one comes to think about it."
"Then I am right in my notion."
"I'm rather afraid you are, sir. But that's a strange way of
thinking."
"Aint it the true way?"
"Perhaps so."
"I am sure so, Sandy! And that's what makes me say that I'm done
selling rum."
The tavern-keeper did not tell all that was in his mind. He said
nothing of his dream, nor of that horrible idea of going to the
rum-seller's hell, and becoming a devil, filled with the delight of
rendering mankind wretched by deluging the land with drunkenness.
"What are you going to do then?" asked Sandy.
"Why, the first thing is to quit rum-selling."
"But what then?"
"I'm not decided yet;--but shall enter into some kind of business
that I can follow with a clear conscience."
"You'll sell out this stands I suppose. The goodwill is worth three
or four hundred dollars."
"No, Sandy, I will not!" was the tavern-keeper's positive, half
indignant reply. "I'll have nothing more to do with the gain of
rum-selling. I have too much of that sin on my conscience already."
"Somebody will come right in, as soon as you move out. And I don't
see why you should give any one such an advantage for nothing."
"I'm not going to move out, Sandy."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Why, one thing--I'm going to shut up this devil's man-trap. And
while I can keep possession of the property, it shall never be
opened as a dram-shop again."
"What are you going to do with your liquors, Mr. Graves? Sell 'em?"
"No."
"What then?"
"Burn 'em. Or let 'em run in the gutter."
"That I should call a piece of folly."
"You may call it what you please. But I'll do it notwithstanding.
I've received my last dollar for rum. Not another would I touch for
all the world!"
A slight shudder passed through the tavern-keeper's body, as he said
this, occasioned by the vivid recollection of some fearful passage
in his late dream.
"You'd better give the liquors to me, Mr. Graves. It would be a
downright sin to throw 'em in the gutter, when a fellow might make a
good living out of 'em."
"No, Sandy. Neither you nor anybody else shall ever make a man drunk
with the liquor now in this house. It shall run in the gutter.
That's settled!"
When the sun arose next morning, Harmony House was shorn of its
attractions as a drinking establishment. All the signs, with their
deceptive and alluring devices, were taken down--the shutters
closed, and everything indicating its late use removed, excepting a
strong smell of liquor, great quantities of which had been poured
into the gutters.
In the course of a few weeks, the house was again re-opened as a
hatter-shop, Mr. Graves having resumed his former honest business,
which he still follows, well patronized by the temperance men, among
whom are Joseph Randolph, and William Riley, the former reclaimed
through his active instrumentality.
HOW TO CURE A TOPER.
[THE following story, literally true in its leading particulars, was
told by a reformed man, who knew W--very well. In repeating it, I
do so in the first person, in order to give it more effect.]
I was enjoying my glass of flip, one night, at the little old "Black
Horse" that used to stand a mile out of S.--, (I hadn't joined the
great army of teetotallers then,) when a neighboring farmer came in,
whose moderation, at least in whisky toddies, was not known unto all
men. His name was W--. He was a quiet sort of a man when sober,
lively and chatty under the effect of a single glass, argumentative
and offensively dogmatic after the second toddy, and downright
insulting and quarrelsome after getting beyond that number of
drinks. We liked him and disliked him on these accounts.
On the occasion referred too, he passed through all these changes,
and finally sunk off to sleep by the warm stove. Being in the way,
and also in danger of tumbling upon the floor, some of us removed
him to an old settee, where he slept soundly, entertaining us with
rather an unmusical serenade. There were two or three mischievous
fellows about the place, and one of them suggested it would be
capital fun to black W--'s face, and "make a darkey of him." No
sooner said than done. Some lamp-black and oil were mixed together
in an old tin cup, and a coat of this paint laid over the face of
W--, who, all unconscious of what had been done, slept on as
soundly and snored as loudly as ever. Full two hours passed away
before he awoke. Staggering up to the bar, he called for another
glass of whisky toddy, while we made the old bar-room ring again
with our peals of laughter.
"What are you all laughing at?" he said, as he became aware that he
was the subject of merriment, and turning his black face around upon
the company as he spoke.
"Give us Zip Coon, old fellow!" called out one of the "boys" who had
helped him to his beautiful mask.
"No! no! Lucy Long! Give us Lucy Long!" cried another.
"Can't you dance Jim Crow? Try it. I'll sing the 'wheel about and
turn about, and do jist so.' Now begin."
And the last speaker commenced singing Jim Crow.
W--neither understood nor relished all this. But the more angry
and mystified he became, the louder laughed the company and the
freer became their jests. At last, in a passion, he swore at us
lustily, and leaving the barroom, in high dudgeon, took his horse
from the stable and rode off.
It was past eleven o'clock. The night was cold, and a ride of two
miles made W--sober enough to understand that he had been rather
drunk, and was still a good deal "in for it;" and that it wouldn't
exactly do for his wife to see him just as he was. So he rode a mile
past his house,--and then back again, at a slow trot, concluding
that by this time the good woman was fast asleep. And so she was. He
entered the house, crept silently up stairs, and got quietly into
bed, without his better half being wiser therefor.
On the next morning, Mrs. W--awoke first. But what was her
surprise and horror, upon rising up, to see, instead of her lawful
husband, what she thought a strapping negro, as black as charcoal,
lying at her side. Her first impulse was to scream; but her presence
of mind in this trying position, enabled her to keep silence. You
may be sure that she didn't remain long in such a close contact with
Sir Darkey. Not she! For, slipping out of bed quickly, but
noiselessly, she glided from the room, and was soon down stairs in
the kitchen, where a stout, two-fisted Irish girl was at work
preparing breakfast.
"Oh! dear! Kitty!" she exclaimed, panting for breath, and looking as
pale as a ghost, "have you seen any thing of Mr. W--, this
morning?"
"Och! no. But what ails ye? Ye're as white as a shate?"
"Oh! mercy! Kitty. You wouldn't believe it, but there's a monstrous
negro in my room!"
"Gracious me! Mrs. W--, a nager?"
"Yes, indeed, Kitty!" returned Mrs. W--, trembling in every limb.
"And worse and worse, he's in my bed! I just 'woke up and thought it
was Mr. W--by my side But, when I looked over, I saw instead of
his face, one as black as the stove. Mercy on me! I was frightened
almost to death."
"Is he aslape?" asked Kitty.
"Yes, sound asleep and snoring. Oh! dear! What shall we do? Where in
the world is Mr. W--? I'm afraid this negro has murdered him."
"Och! the blasted murtherin' thafe!" exclaimed Kitty, her organ of
combativeness, which was very large, becoming terribly excited. "Get
into mistress's bed, and the leddy there herself, the omadhoun! The
black, murtherin' thafe of a villain!"
And Kitty, thinking of no danger to herself, and making no
calculation of consequences, seized a stout hickory clothes pole
that stood in one corner of the kitchen, and went up stairs like a
whirlwind, banging the pole against the door, balusters, or whatever
came in its way. The noise roused W--from his sleep, and he raised
up in bed just as Kitty entered the room.
"Oh! you murtherin' thafe of a villain!" shouted Kitty, as she
caught sight of his black face, pitching into him with her pole, and
sweeping off his night-cap, at the imminent risk of taking his head
with it.
"Hallo!" he cried, not at all liking this strange proceeding, "are
you mad?"
"Mad is it, ye thafe!" retorted Kitty, who did not recognize the
voice, and taking a surer aim this time with her pole, brought him a
tremendous blow alongside of the head, which knocked him senseless.
Mrs. W--who was at the bottom of the stairs, heard her husband's
exclamation, and, knowing his voice, came rushing up, and entered
the room in time to see Kitty's formidable weapon come with terrible
force against his head. Before the blow could be repeated, for
Kitty, ejaculating her "murtherin' thafe of a villain!" had lifted
the pole again, Mrs. W--threw her arms around her neck, and cried,
"Don't, don't, Kitty, for mercy's sake!" It's Mr. W--, and you've
killed him!"
"Mr. W--indade!" retorted Kitty, indignantly, struggling to free
herself. "Is Mr. W--a thafe of a nager, ma'am?"
But even Kitty's eyes, as soon as they took the pains to look more
closely, saw that it was indeed all as the mistress had said.
W--had fallen over on his face, and his head and white neck were
not to be mistaken.
The pole dropped from Kitty's hands, and, with the exclamation,
"Och! murther!" she turned and shot from the room, with as good a
will as she had entered it.
The blow which W--received was severe, breaking through the flesh
and bruising and lacerating his ear badly. He recovered very soon,
however, and, as he arose up, caught sight of himself in a looking
glass that hung opposite. We may be sure that it took all parties,
in this exciting and almost tragical affair, some time to understand
exactly what was the matter. W--'s recollection of the loud
merriment that had driven him from the "Black Horse" on the previous
night, when it revived, as it did pretty soon, explained all to him,
and set him to talking in a most unchristian manner.
Poor Kitty was so frightened at what she had done that she gathered
up her "duds" and fled instanter, and was never again seen in that
neighborhood.
As for W--, he was cured of his nocturnal visits to the "Black
Horse," and his love of whisky toddy. Some months afterwards he
espoused the temperance cause, and I've heard him tell the tale
myself, many a time, and laugh heartily at the figure he must have
cut, when Kitty commenced beating him for a "thafe of a nager."
THE BROKEN PLEDGE.
"IT is two years, this very day, since I signed the pledge,"
remarked Jonas Marshall, a reformed drinker, to his wife, beside
whom he sat one pleasant summer evening, enjoying the coolness and
quiet of that calm hour.
"Two years! And is it, indeed, so long?" was the reply. "How swiftly
time passes, when the heart is not oppressed with cape and sorrow!"
"To me, they have been the happiest of my life," resumed the
husband. "How much do we owe to this blessed reformation!"
"Blessed, indeed, may it be called!" the wife said, with feeling.
"It seems scarcely possible, Jane, that one, who, like me, had
become such a slave to intoxication, could have been reclaimed. I
often think of myself, and wonder. A little over two years ago, I
could no more control the intolerable desire for liquor that I felt,
than I could fly. Now I have not the least inclination to touch,
taste, or handle it."
"And I pray Heaven you may never again have!"
"That danger is past, Jane. Two years of total abstinence have
completely changed the morbid craving once felt for artificial
stimulus, into a natural and healthy desire for natural and healthy
aliments."
"It would be dangerous for you even now, Jonas, to suffer a drop of
liquor to pass your lips; do you not think so?"
"There would be no particular danger in my tasting liquor, I
presume. The danger would be, as at first, in the use of it, until
an appetite was formed." Marshall replied, in a tone of confidence.
"Then you think that old, inordinate craving for drink, has been
entirely eradicated?"
"O yes, I am confident of it."
"And heartily glad am I to hear you say so. It doubles the guarantee
for our own and children's happiness. The pledge to guard us on one
side, and the total loss of all desire on the other, is surely a
safe protection. I feel, that into the future I may now look,
without a single painful anxiety on this account."
"Yes, Jane. Into the future you may look with hope. And as to the
past, let it sink, with all its painful scenes,--its heart-aching
trials, into oblivion."
Jonas Marshall and his young wife had, many years before the period
in which the above conversation took place, entered upon the world
with cheerful hopes, and a flattering promise of happiness. They
were young persons of cultivated tastes, and had rather more of this
world's goods than ordinarily falls to the lot of those just
commencing life. A few years sufficed to dash all their hopes to the
ground, and to fill the heart of the young wife with a sorrow that
it seemed impossible for her to bear. Marshall, from habitual
drinking of intoxicating liquors, found the taste for them fully
confirmed before he dreamed of danger, and he had not the strength
of character at once and for ever to abandon their use. Gradually he
went down, down, slowly at first, but finally with a rapid movement,
until he found himself stripped of everything, and himself a
confirmed drunkard. For nearly two years longer, he surrendered
himself up to drink--his wife and children suffering more than my
pen can describe, or any but the drunkard's wife and drunkard's
children realize.
Then came a new era. A friend of humanity sought out the poor,
degraded wretch, in his misery and obscurity, and prevailed upon him
to abandon his vile habits, and pledge himself to total abstinence.
Two years from the day that pledge was signed, found him again
rising in the world, with health, peace, and comfort, the cheerful
inmates of his dwelling. Here is the brief outline of a reformed
drinker's history. How many an imagination can fill in the dark
shadows, and distinct, mournful features of the gloomy picture!
On the day succeeding the second anniversary of Jonas Marshall's
reformation, he was engaged to dine with a few friends, and met them
at the appointed hour. With the dessert, wine was introduced. Among
the guests were one or two persons with whom Marshall had but
recently become acquainted. They knew little or nothing of his
former life. One of them sat next to him at table, and very
naturally handed him the wine, with a request to drink with him.
"Thank you," was the courteous, but firm reply. "I do not drink
wine."
Another, who understood the reason of this refusal, observing it,
remarked--
"Our friend Marshall belongs to the tee-totallers."
"Ah, indeed! Then we must, of course, excuse him," was the
gentlemanly response.
"Don't you think, Marshall," remarked another, "that you temperance
men are a little too rigid in your entire proscription of wine?"
"For the reformed drinker," was the reply, "it is thought to be the
safest way to cut off entirely everything that can, by possibility,
inflame the appetite. Some argue, that when that morbid craving,
which the drunkard acquires, is once formed, it never can be
thoroughly eradicated."
"Do you think the position a true one?" asked a member of the party.
"I have my doubts of it," Marshall said. "For instance: Most of you
know that for some years I indulged to excess in drink. Two years
ago I abandoned the use of wine, brandy, and everything else of an
intoxicating nature. For a time, I felt the cravings of an intense
desire for liquor; but my pledge of total abstinence restrained me
from any indulgence. Gradually, the influence of my old appetite
subsided, until it ceased to be felt. And it is now more than a year
since I have experienced the slightest inclination to touch a drop.
Your wine and brandy are now, gentlemen, no temptation to me."
"But if that be the case," urged a friend, "why need you restrict
yourself, so rigidly, from joining in a social glass? Standing, as
you evidently do, upon the ground you occupied, before, by a too
free indulgence, you passed, unfortunately, the point of
self-control: you may now enjoy the good things of life without
abusing them. Your former painful experience will guard you in that
respect."
"I am not free to do so," replied Marshall.
"Why?"
"Because I have pledged myself never again to drink anything that
can intoxicate, and confirmed that pledge by my sign-manual--thus
giving it a double force and importance."
"What end had you in view in making that pledge?"
"The emancipation of myself from the horrible bondage in which I had
been held for years."
"That end is accomplished."
"True. But the obligations of my pledge are perpetual."
"That is a mere figure of speech. You fully believed, I suppose,
that perpetual total-abstinence was absolutely necessary for your
safety?"
"I certainly did."
"You do not believe so now?"
"No. I have seen reason, I think, to change my views in that
respect. The appetite which I believed would remain throughout life,
and need the force of a solemn bond to restrain it, has, under the
rigid discipline of two years, been destroyed. I now feel myself as
much above the enslaving effects of intoxicating liquors, as I ever
did in my life."
"Then, it is clear to my mind, that all the obligations of your
pledge are fulfilled; and that, as a matter of course, it ceases to
be binding."
"I should be very unwilling to violate that pledge."
"It would be, virtually, no violation."
"I cannot see it in that light," Marshall said, "although you may be
perfectly correct. At any rate, I am not now willing to act up to
your interpretation of the matter."
This declaration closed the argument, as his friends did not feel
any strong desire to see him drink, and argued the matter with him
as much for argument sake as anything else. In this they acted with
but little true wisdom; for the particular form in which the subject
was presented to the mind of Marshall, gave him something to think
about and reason about. And the more he thought and reasoned, the
more did he become dissatisfied with the restrictions under which he
found himself placed. Not having felt, for many months, the least
desire for liquor, he imagined that even the latent inclination
which existed, as he readily supposed, for some time, had become
altogether extinguished. There existed, therefore, in his
estimation, now that he had begun to think over the matter, no good
reason why he should abstain, totally, from wine, at least, on a
social occasion.
The daily recurrence of such thoughts, soon began to worry his mind,
until the pledge, that had for two years lain so lightly upon him,
became a burden almost too intolerable to be borne.
"Why didn't I bind myself for a limited period?" he at last said,
aloud, thus giving a sanction and confirmation by word of the
thoughts that had been gradually forming themselves into a decision
in his mind. No sooner had he said this, than the whole subject
assumed a more distinct form, and a more imposing aspect in his
view. He now saw clearly, what had not before seemed perfectly
plain--what had been till then encompassed by doubts. He was
satisfied that he had acted blindly when he pledged himself to
total-abstinence.
"Three hundred signed the pledge last night," said his wife to him,
a few weeks after the occurrence of the dinner-party, just
mentioned.
"Three hundred! We are carrying everything before us."
"Who can tell," resumed the wife, "the amount of happiness involved
in three hundred pledges to total-abstinence? There were, doubtless,
many husbands and fathers among the number who signed. Now, there is
joy in their dwellings. The fire, that long since went out, is again
kindled upon their hearths. How deeply do I sympathize with the
heart-stricken wives, upon whom day as again arisen, with a bright
sun shining down from an unclouded sky!"
"It is, truly, to them, a new era--or the dawning of a new
existence.--Most earnestly do I wish that the day had arrived, which
I am sure will come, when not a single wife in the land will mourn
over the wrong she suffers at the hand of a drunken husband."
"To that aspiration, I can utter a most devout amen," Mrs. Marshall
rejoined, fervently.
"A few years of perseverance and well-directed energy, on our part,
will effect all this, I allow myself fondly to hope, if we do not
create a reaction by over-doing the matter."
"How, over-doing it?" asked the wife.
"There is a danger of over-doing it in many ways. And I am by no
means sure that the pledge of perpetual abstinence is not an
instance of this."
"The pledge of perpetual abstinence! Why, husband, what do you
mean?"
"My remark seems to occasion surprise. But I think that I can make
the truth of what I say apparent to your mind. The use of the
pledge, you will readily admit, is to protect a man against the
influence of a morbid thirst for liquor, which his own resolution is
not strong enough to conquer."
"Well."
"So soon, then, as this end is gained, the use of the pledge
ceases."
"Is it ever gained? Is a man who has once felt this morbid thirst,
ever safe from it?"
"Most certainly do I believe that he is. Most certainly do I believe
that a few years of total abstinence from everything that
intoxicates, will place him on the precise ground that he occupied
before the first drop of liquor passed his lips."
"I cannot believe this, Jonas. Whatever is once confirmed by habit,
it seems to me, must be so incorporated into the mental and physical
organization, as never to be eradicated. Its effect is to change, in
a degree, the whole system, and to change it so thoroughly, as to
give a bias to all succeeding states of mind and body--thus
transmitting a tendency to come under the influence of that bias."
"You advance a thing, Jane, which will not hold good in practice.
As, for instance, it is now two years since I tasted a drop of wine,
brandy, or anything else of a like nature. If your theory were true,
I should still feel a latent desire, at times, to drink again. But
this is not the case. I have not the slightest inclination. The
sight, or even the smell of wine, does not produce the old desire,
which it would inevitably do, if it were only quiescent--not
extirpated--as I am confident that it is."
"And this is the reason why you think the pledge should not be
perpetual?"
"It is. Why should there be an external restraint imposed upon a
mere nonentity? It is absurd!"
"Granting, for the sake of argument, the view you take, in regard to
the extirpation of the morbid desire, which, however, I cannot see
to be true," Mrs. Marshall said, endeavouring to seem unconcerned,
notwithstanding the position assumed by her husband troubled her
instinctively,--"it seems to me, that there still exists a good
reason why the pledge should be perpetual."
"What is that, Jane?"
"If a man has once been led off by a love of drink, when no previous
habit had been formed, there exists, at least, the same danger
again, if liquor be used;--and if it should possibly be true that
the once formed desire, if subdued, is latent--not eradicated--the
danger is quadrupled."
"I do not see the force of what you say," the husband replied. "To
me, it seems, that the very fact that he had once fallen, and the
remembrance of its sad consequences, would be a sure protection
against another lapse from sobriety."
"It may all be so," Mrs. Marshall said, in a voice that conveyed a
slight evidence of the sudden shadow that had fallen upon her heart.
And then ensued a silence of more than a minute. The wife then
remarked in an inquiring tone--
"Then, if I understand you rightly, you think that the pledge should
be binding only for a limited time?"
"I do."
"How long?"
"From one to two years. Two, at the farthest, would be sufficient, I
am fully convinced, to restore any man, to the healthy tone of mind
and body that he once possessed. And then, the recollection of the
past would be an all-sufficient protection for the future."
Seeing that the husband was confirming himself more and more in the
dangerous position that he had assumed, Mrs. Marshall said no more.
Painfully conscious was she, from a knowledge of his peculiar
character, that, if the idea now floating in his mind should become
fixed by a rational confirmation, it would lead to evil
consequences. From that moment, she began eagerly to cast about in
her mind for the means of setting him right,--means that should
fully operate, without her apparent agency. But one way presented
itself,--(argument, she was well aware, as far as it was possible
for her to enter into it with him, would only set his mind the more
earnestly in search of reason, to prove the correctness of his
assumed positions,)--and that was to induce him to attend more
frequently the temperance meetings, and listen to the addresses and
experiences there given.
"Come, dear," she said to him, after tea, a few evenings subsequent
to the time Marshall had begun to urge his objections to the pledge.
"I want you to go with me to-night to this great temperance meeting.
Mr.--is going to make an address, and I wish to hear him very
much."
"It will be so crowded, Jane, that you will not have the least
satisfaction," objected her husband--"and, besides, the evening is
very warm."
"But I don't mind that, Jonas. I am very anxious to hear
Mr.--speak."
"I am sorry, Jane," Marshall said, after the silence of a few
moments. "But I recollect, now, that I promised Mr. Patton to call
down and see him this evening. There are to be a few friends there,
and he wished me, particularly, to meet them."
Poor Mrs. Marshall's countenance fell at this, and the tears
gathered in her eyes.
"So, then, you won't go with me to the temperance meeting," she
said, in a disappointed tone.
"I should like to do so, Jane," was the prevaricating reply, "but
you see that it is out of my power, without breaking my promise,
which you would not, of course, have me do."
"O, no, of course not."
"You can go, Jane. I will leave you at the door, and call for you
when the meeting is out."
"No, I do not feel like going, now I should have enjoyed it with you
by my side. But to go alone would mar all the pleasure."
"But surely that need not be, Jane. You know that I cannot be always
with you."
"No, of course not," was uttered, mechanically; and then followed a
long silence.
"So you will not go," Marshall at length said.
"I should not enjoy the meeting, and therefore do not wish to go,"
his wife replied.
"I am sorry for it, but cannot help it now, for I should not feel
right were I not to comply with my promise."
"I do not wish you to break it, of course. For a promise should ever
be kept sacred," Mrs. Marshall said, with a strong emphasis on the
latter sentence.
This emphasis did not escape the notice of her husband, who felt
that it was meant, as it really was, to apply to his state of mind
in regard to the pledge. For it was a fact, which the instinctive
perception of his wife had detected, that he had begun, seriously,
to argue in his own mind, the question, whether, under the
circumstances of the case, seeing, that, in taking the pledge, the
principle of protection was alone considered, he was any longer
bound by it. He did not, however, give expression to the thoughts
that he had at the time. The subject of conversation was changed,
and, in the course of half an hour, he left to fulfil his
engagement, which had not, in reality, been a positive one. As he
closed the door after him, Mrs. Marshall experienced a degree of
loneliness, and a gloomy depression of feeling, that she could not
fully account for, though she could not but acknowledge that, for a
portion of it, there existed too certain a cause, in the strange and
dangerous position her husband had taken in regard to the pledge.
As Marshall emerged from his dwelling, and took his way towards the
friend's house, where he expected to meet a select company, his mind
did not feel perfectly at ease. He had partly deceived his wife in
reference to the positive nature of the engagement, and had done so
in order to escape from an attendance on a temperance meeting. This
did not seem right. There was, also, a consciousness in his mind
that it would be extremely hazardous to throw off the restraints of
his pledge, at the same time that a resolution was already half
formed to do so. The agitation of mind occasioned by this conflict
continued until he arrived at his friend's door, and then, as he
joined the pleasant company within, it all subsided.
"A hearty welcome, Marshall!" said the friend, grasping his hand and
shaking it warmly. "We were really afraid that we should not have
the pleasure of your good society. But right glad am I, that, with
your adherence to temperance men and temperance principles, you do
not partake of the exclusive and unsocial character that so many
assume."
"I regard my friends with the same warm feelings that I ever did,"
Marshall replied,--"and love to meet them as frequently."
"That is right. We are social beings, and should cultivate
reciprocal good-feelings. But don't you think, Marshall, that some
of you temperance folks carry matters too far?"
"Certainly I do. As, for instance, I consider this binding of a man
to perpetual total-abstinence, as an unnecessary infringement of
individual liberty. As I look upon it, the use of the pledge, is to
enable a man, by the power of an external restraint, to gain the
mastery over an appetite that has mastered him. When that is
accomplished, all that is wanted is obtained: of what use is the
pledge after that?"
"Very true," was the encouraging reply.
"A man," resumed Marshall, repeating the argument he had used to his
wife, which now seemed still more conclusive, "has only to abstain
for a year or two from liquor to have the morbid craving for it
which over-indulgence had created, entirely eradicated. Then he
stands upon safe ground, and may take a social glass, occasionally,
with his friends, without the slightest danger. To bind himself up,
then, to perpetual abstinence, seems not only useless, but a real
infringement of individual liberty."
"So it presents itself to my mind," rejoined one of the company.
"I feel it to be so in my case," was the reply of the reformed man
to this, thus going on to invite temptation, instead of fleeing from
it.
"Certainly, if I were the individual concerned," remarked one of the
company, "I should not be long in breaking away from such arbitrary
restrictions."
"How would you get over the fact of having signed the pledge?" asked
Marshall, with an interest that he dared not acknowledge to himself.
"Easy enough," was the reply.
"How?"
"On the plea that I was deceived into signing such a pledge."
"How deceived?"
"Into a belief that it was the only remedy in my case. There is no
moral law binding any man to a contract entered into ignorantly. The
fact of ignorance, in regard to the fundamental principles of an
agreement, vitiates it. Is not that true?"
"It certainly is," was the general reply to this question.
"Then you think," said Marshall, after reflecting for a few moments,
"that no moral responsibility would attach to me, for instance, if I
were to act independently of my pledge?"
"Certainly none could attach," was the general response; "provided,
of course, that the end of that pledge was fully attained."
"Of that there can be no doubt," was the assumption of the reformed
man. "The end was, to save me from the influence of an appetite for
drink, against which, in my own strength, I could not contend. That
end is now accomplished. Two years of total abstinence has made me a
new man. I now occupy the same ground that I occupied before I lost
my self-control."
"Then I can see no reason why you should be denied the social
privilege of a glass with your friends," urged one of the company.
"Nor can I see it clearly," Marshall said. "Still I feel that a
solemn pledge, made more solemn and binding by the subscription of
my name, is not a thing to be lightly broken. The thought of doing
so troubles me, when I seriously reflect upon it."
"It seems to me that, were I in your place," gravely remarked one of
the company, heretofore silent, "I would not break my pledge without
fully settling two points--if it is possible for you, or any other
man, under like circumstances, to settle them."
"What are they?" asked Marshall, with interest.
"They are the two most prominent points in your case;--two that have
already been introduced here to-night. One involves the question,
whether you are really free from the influence of your former
habits?"
"I have not a single doubt in regard to that point," was the
positive reply.
"I do not see, Mr. Marshall, how it is possible for you to settle it
beyond a doubt," urged the friend. "To me, it is not philosophically
true that the power of habit is ever entirely destroyed. All
subsequent states of body or mind, I fully believe, are affected and
modified by what has gone before, and never lose the impression of
preceding states,--and more particularly of anything like an
overmastering habit--or rather, I should say, in this case, of an
overmastering affection. The love, desire, or affection, whichever
you may choose to call it, which you once felt for intoxicating
drinks, or for the effects produced by them, never could have
existed in the degree that they did, without leaving on your
mind--which is a something far more real and substantial than this
material body, which never loses the marks and scars of former
abuse--ineradicable impressions. The forms of old habits, if this be
true, and that it so, _I_ fully believe, still remain; and these
forms are in the endeavour, if I may so speak, to be filled with the
affections that once made them living and active. Rigidly exclude
everything that can excite these, and you are safe;--but, to me it
seems, that no experiment can be so dangerous, as one which will
inevitably produce in these forms a vital activity."
"That, it seems to me," was the reply of one of the company, "is a
little too metaphysical--or rather, I should say,
transcendental--for, certainly, it transcends my powers of reasoning
to be able to see how any permanent forms, as you call them, can be
produced in the mind, as in the body--the one being material, and
the other immaterial, and, therefore, no more susceptible of lasting
impressions, than the air around us."
"You have not, I presume, given much thought to this subject," the
previous speaker said, "or you would not doubt, so fully, the truth
of my remark. The power of habit, a fact of common observance, which
is nothing but a fixed form of the mind, illustrates it. And,
certainly, if the mind retained impressions no better than the air
around us, we should remember but little of what we learned in early
years."
"I see," was the reply to this, "that my remark was too broad.
Still, the memory of a thing is very different from a permanent and
inordinate desire to do something wrong, remaining as a latent
principle in the mind, and ready to spring into activity years
afterwards, upon the slightest provocation."
"It certainly is a different thing; and if it be really so, its
establishment is a matter of vital importance. In regard to reformed
drinkers, there has been much testimony in proof of the position. I
have heard several men relate their experiences; and all have said
that time and again had they resolved to conquer the habit that was
leading them on headlong to destruction; and that they had, on more
than one occasion, abstained for months. But that, so soon as they
again put liquor to their lips, the old desire came back for it,
stronger and more uncontrollable than before."
"That was, I presume," Marshall remarked, "because they had not
abstained long enough."
"One man, I remember to have heard say, that he did not at one
period of his life use any kind of intoxicating drink for three
years. He then ventured to take a glass of cider, and was drunk and
insensible before night! And what was worse, did not again rise
superior to his degradation for years."
"I should call that an, extreme case," urged the infatuated man.
"There must have been with him a hereditary propensity. His father
was, doubtless, a drunkard before him."
"As to that, I know nothing, and should not be willing to assume the
fact as a practical principle,"--the friend replied. "But there is
another point that ought to be fully settled."
"What is that?"
"No one can, without seriously injuring himself, morally, violate a
solemn pledge--particularly, as you have justly said, a pledge made
more binding and solemn, by act and deed, in the sign-manual. A man
may verbally pledge himself to do or not to do a thing. To violate
this pledge deliberately, involves moral consequences to himself
that are such as almost any one would shrink from incurring. But
when a man gives to any pledge or contract a fulness and a
confirmation by the act of subscribing his name to it, and then
deliberately violates that pledge or contract, he necessarily
separates himself still further from the saving power of good
principles and influences than in the other case, and comes more
fully under the power of evil principles and evil influences. After
such an act, that man's state is worse, far worse than it was
before. I speak strongly and earnestly on this subject, because I
feel deeply its importance. And I would say to our friend Marshall
here, as I would say to my own brother, let these two points be
fully settled before you venture upon dangerous ground. Be sure that
the latent desire for stimulating drinks is fully eradicated--and be
certain that your pledge can be set aside without great moral injury
to yourself, before you take the first step towards its violation,
which may be a step fraught with the most fatal consequences to
yourself and family."
This unlooked-for and serious turn which the discussion assumed, had
the effect to make Marshall hesitate to do what he had too hastily
made his mind up that he might venture upon without the slightest
danger. It also furnished reasons to the company why they should not
urge him to drink. The result was, that he escaped through all the
temptations of the evening, which would have overcome him,
inevitably, had his own inclination found a general voice of
encouragement.
But none of the strong arguments why he should not again run madly
into the way of evil, which had been so opportunely and unexpectedly
urged, had the effect to keep his eye off of the decanters and
brim-full glasses that circulated far too freely;--nor to prevent
the sight of them from exciting in his mind a strong, almost
unconquerable desire, to join with the rest. This very desire ought
to have warned him--it should have caused him to tremble and flee
away as if a raging wild beast had stood in his path. But it did
not. He deceived himself by assuming (sic) hat the desire which he
felt to drink with his friends arose from his love of sociality, not
of wine.
The evening was lonely and long to Mrs. Marshall, and there was a
shadow over her feelings that she endeavoured in vain to dispel. Her
husband's knock, which came between ten and eleven o'clock, and for
which she had been listening anxiously for at least an hour, made
her heart bound and tremble, producing a feeling of weakness and
oppression. As she opened the door for him, it was with a vague
fear. This was instantly dispelled by his first affectionate word
uttered in steady tones. He was still himself! Still as he had been
for the blessed two years that had just gone by!
"What is the matter, Jane? You look troubled," the husband remarked,
after he had seated himself, and observed his wife's appearance.
"Do I?--If so, it is because I have felt troubled this evening."
"Why were you troubled, Jane?"
"That question I can hardly answer, either to your satisfaction or
my own," Mrs. Marshall said. "From some cause or other, my feelings
have been strangely depressed this evening; and I have experienced,
besides, a consciousness of coming misery, that has cast a shadow
over my spirits, even now but half dispelled."
"But why is all this, Jane? There must be some cause for such a
change in your feelings."
"I know but one cause, dear husband!" Mrs. Marshall said, in a voice
of deep tenderness, laying her hand upon her husband's arm as she
spoke, and looking him in the face with an expression of earnest
affection.
"Speak out plainly, Jane. What is the cause?"
"Do not be offended, Jonas, when I tell you, that I have not been so
overcome by such gloomy feelings since that happy day when you
signed the pledge, as I have been this evening. The cause of these
feelings lies in the fact of your having become dissatisfied with
that pledge. I tremble, lest, in some unguarded moment, under the
assurance that old habits are conquered, you may be persuaded to
cast aside that impassable barrier, which has protected your home
and little ones for so long and happy a time."
"You are weak and foolish, Jane," her husband said, in a
half-offended tone.
"In many things I know that I am," was Mrs. Marshall's reply, "but
not in this. A wife who loves her husband and children as tenderly
as I do mine, cannot but tremble when fears are suddenly awakened
that the footsteps of a deadly enemy are approaching her peaceful
dwelling."
"Such an enemy is not drawing nigh to your dwelling, Jane."
"Heaven grant that it may not be so!" was the solemn ejaculation.
"To this, Marshall felt no inclination to reply. He had already said
enough in regard to his pledge to awaken the fears of his wife, and
to call forth from her expressions of strong opposition to his views
of the nature of his obligation. His silence tended, in no degree,
to quiet her troubled feelings.
On the next morning, Marshall was thoughtful and silent. After
breakfast, he went out to attend to business, as usual. As he closed
the door after him, his wife heaved a deep sigh, lifted her eyes
upwards, and prayed silently, but fervently, that her husband might
be kept from evil. And well might she thus pray, for he needed
support and sustenance in the conflict that was going on in his
bosom--a conflict far more vigorous than was dreamed of by the wife.
He had invited temptation, and now he was in the midst of a
struggle, that would end in a more perfect emancipation of himself
from the demon-vice that had once ruled him with a rod of iron, or
in his being cast down to a lower depth of wretchedness and misery
than that out of which he had arisen. In this painful struggle he
stood not alone. Good spirits clustered around him, anxiously
interested in his fate, and endeavouring to sustain his faltering
purposes; and evil spirits were also nigh, infusing into his mind
reasons for the abandonment of his useless pledge. It was a period
in his history full of painful interest. Heaven was moving forward
to aid and rescue him, and hell to claim another victim. But neither
the one nor the other could act upon him for good or for evil,
except through his own volition. It was for him to turn himself to
the one, and live, or to the other, and die.
So intense was this struggle, that, after he had entered his place
of business, he remained there for only a short time, unable to fix
his mind upon anything out of himself, or to bid the tempest in his
mind "be still." Going out into the street, he turned his steps he
knew not whither. He had moved onwards but a few paces, when the
thought of home and his children came up in his mind, accompanied by
a strong desire to go back to his dwelling--a feeling that required
a strong effort to resist. The moment he had effectually resisted
it, and resolved not to go home, his eye fell upon the tempting
exposure of liquors in a bar-room, near which he happened to be
passing. At the same instant, it seemed as if a strong hand were
upon him, urging him towards the open door.
"No--no--no!" he said, half aloud, hurrying forward, "I am not
prepared for that. And yet, what a fool I am," he continued, "to
suffer myself thus to be agitated! Why not come to some decision,
and end this uncertain, painful state at once? But what shall I do?
How shall I decide?"
"To keep your pledge," a voice, half audible, seemed to say.
"And be for ever restless under it,--for ever galled by its slavish
chains," another voice urged, instantly.
"Yes," he said, "that is the consequence which makes me hesitate.
Fool--fool--not to have taken a pledge for a limited period! I was
deceived--tricked into an act that my sober reason condemns! And
should I now be held by that act? No!--no!--no! The voice of reason
says no! And I will not!"
As he said this, he turned about, and walked with a firm, deliberate
step, towards the bar-room he had passed but a few moments before,
entered it, called for a glass of wine, and drank it off.
"Now I am a free man!" he said, as he turned away, and proceeded
towards his place of business, with an erect bearing.
He had not gone far, however, before he felt a strong desire for
another glass of wine, unaccompanied by any thought or fear of
danger. From the moment he had placed the forbidden draught to his
lips, the struggle in his mind had ceased, and a great calm
succeeded to a wild conflict of opposite principles and influences.
He felt happy, and doubly assured that he had taken a right step. A
second glass of wine succeeded the first, and then a third, before
he returned to his place of business. These gave to the tone of his
spirits a very perceptible elevation, but threw over his mind a veil
of confusion and obscurity, of which, however, he was not conscious.
An hour only had passed after his return to business, before he
again went out, and seeking an obscure drinking-house, where his
entrance would not probably be observed, he called for a glass of
punch, and then retired into one of the boxes, where it was handed
to him. Its fragrance and flavour, as he placed it to his lips, were
delightful--so delightful, that it seemed to him a concentration of
all exquisite perceptions of the senses.
Another was soon called for, and then another and another, each one
stealing away more and more of distinct consciousness, until at last
he sunk forward on the table before which he had seated himself,
perfectly lost to all consciousness of external things!
Gladly would the writer draw a veil over all that followed that
insane violation of a solemn pledge, sealed as it had been by the
hand-writing of confirmation. But he cannot do it. The truth, and
the whole truth needs to be told,--the beacon-light must be raised
on the gloomy shores of destruction, as a warning to the thoughtless
or careless navigator.
Sadder and more wretched was the heart of Mrs. Marshall during the
morning of that day, than it had been on the evening before. There
was an overwhelming sense of impending danger in her mind, that she
could not dissipate by any mode of reasoning with herself. As her
children came about her, she would look upon them with an emotion of
yearning tenderness, while her eyes grew dim with tears. And then
she would look up, and breathe a heart-felt prayer that He who
tempereth the winds to the shorn lamb, would regard her little ones.
The failure of her husband to return at the dinner hour, filled her
with trembling anxiety. Not once during two years had he been absent
from home without her being perfectly aware of the cause. Its
occurrence just at this crisis was a confirmation of her vague
fears, and made her sick at heart. Slowly did the afternoon pass
away, and at last the hour came for his return in the evening. But
though she looked for his approaching form, and listened for the
well-known sound of his footsteps, he did not come.
Anxiety and trembling uncertainty now gave way to an overwhelming
alarm. Hurriedly were her children put to bed, and then she went out
to seek for him, she knew not whither. To the store in which he had
become a partner, she first turned her steps. It was closed as she
had feared. Pausing for a few moments to determine where next to
proceed, she concluded to go to the house of his partner, and learn
from him if he had been to the store that day, and at what time. On
her way to his dwelling, she passed down a small street, in which
were several drinking-houses, hid away there to catch the many who
are not willing to be seen entering a tavern.
In approaching one of these, loud voices within, and the sound of a
scuffle, alarmed her. She was about springing forward to run, when
the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man dashed out, who fell
with a violent concussion upon the pavement, close by her feet.
Something about his appearance, dark as it was, attracted her eye.
She stooped down, and laid her hand upon him. It was her husband!
A wild scream, that rung upon the air,--a scream which the poor
heart-stricken creature could not have controlled if her life had
been the forfeit--brought instant assistance. Marshall was taken
into a neighbouring house, and a physician called, who, on making an
examination, said that a serious injury might, or might not have
taken place--he could not tell. One thing, however, was certain, the
man was beastly drunk.
O, with what a chill did that last sentence fall upon the ear of his
wife! It was the death-knell to all the fond hopes she had cherished
for two peaceful years. For a moment she leaned her head against the
wall near which she was standing, and wished that she could die. But
thoughts of her children, and thoughts of duty roused her.
A carnage was procured and her husband conveyed home, and then,
after he had been laid upon a bed, she was left alone with him, and
her own sad reflections. It was, to her, a sleepless night--but full
of waking dreams, whose images of fear made her heart tremble and
shrink, and long for the morning.
Morning at last came. How eagerly did the poor wife bend over the
still unconscious form of her husband, reading each line of his
features, as the pale light that came in at the windows gave
distinctness to every object! He still breathed heavily, and there
was an expression of pain on his countenance. A double cause for
anxiety and alarm, pressed upon the heart of Mrs. Marshall. She knew
not how serious an injury his fall might have occasioned,--nor how
utter might be his abandonment of himself, now that he had broken
his solemn pledge. As she bent over him in doubt, pain, and anxiety,
he suddenly awoke, and, without moving, looked her for a moment
steadily in the face, with a glance of earnest inquiry. Then came a
distinct recollection of his violated pledge; but all after that was
only dimly seen, or involved in wild confusion. His bodily
sensations told him but too plainly how deep had been his fall: and
the intolerable desire, that seemed as if it were consuming his very
vitals, was to him a sad evidence that he had fallen, never, he
feared, to rise again. All this passed through his mind in a moment,
and he closed his eyes, and turned his face away from the earnest,
and now tearful gaze of his wife.
"How do you feel, Jonas?" Mrs. Marshall inquired, tenderly,
modifying her tones, so as not to permit them to convey to his ear
the exquisite pain that she felt. But he made no reply.
"Say, dear, how do you feel?" she urged, laying her hand upon him,
and pausing for an answer.
"As if I were in hell!" he shouted, springing suddenly from the bed,
and beginning to dress himself, hurriedly.
"O, husband, do not speak so!" Mrs. Marshall said, in a soothing
tone. "All may be well again. One sin need not bring utter
condemnation. Let this be the last, as it has been the first,
violation of your pledge. Let this warn you against the removal of
that salutary restraint, which has been as a wall of fire around you
for years."
"Jane!" responded the irritated man, pausing, and looking at his
wife, fixedly, while there sat upon his face an expression of
terrible despair; "that pledge can never be renewed! It would be
like binding a giant with a spider's web. I am lost! lost! lost! The
eager, inexpressible desire that now burns within me, cannot be
controlled. The effort to do so would drive me mad. I must drink, or
die. And you, my poor wife!--and you, my children! what will become
of you? Who will give you sufficient strength to bear your dreadful
lot?"
As he said this, his voice fell to a low and mournful, despairing
expression--and he sunk into a chair, covering his face with his
hands.
"Dear husband!" urged his wife, coming to his side, and drawing her
arm around his neck, "do not thus give way! Let the love I have ever
borne you, and which is stronger and more tender at this moment than
it has ever been--let the love you feel for your dear little ones,
give you strength to conquer. Be a man! Nerve yourself, and look
upwards for strength, and you must conquer."
"No--no--no--Jane!" the poor wretch murmured, shaking his head,
mournfully. "Do not deceive your heart by false hopes, for they will
all be in vain. I cannot look up. The heavens have become as brass
to me. I have forfeited all claim to success from above. As I lifted
the fatal glass to my lips, I heard a voice, whose tones were as
distinct as yours--'Let us go hence!' and from that moment, I have
been weak and unsustained in the hands of my enemies. I am a doomed
man!"
As he said this, a shrinking shudder passed through his frame, and
he groaned aloud. The silence that then reigned through the chamber
was as appalling as the silence of death to the heart of Mrs.
Marshall. It was broken at length by her husband, who looked up with
an expression of tenderness in her face, as she still stood with her
hand upon him, and said--
"Jane, my dear wife! let me say to you now, while I possess my full
senses, which I know not that I ever shall again, that you have been
true and kind to me, and that I have ever loved you with an earnest
love. Bear with me in my infirmity;--if, amid the grief, and wrong,
and suffering, which must fall upon you and your children, you _can_
bear with the miserable cause of all your wretchedness. I shall not
long remain, I feel, to be a burden and a curse to you. My downward
course will be rapid, and its termination will soon come!"
A gush of tears followed this, and then came a stern silence, that
chilled the heart of Mrs. Marshall. She longed to urge still further
upon her husband to make an effort to restrain the intense desire he
felt, but could not. There seemed to be a seal upon her lips. Slowly
she turned away to attend to her little ones, upon whom she now
looked with something of that hopelessness which the widow feels, as
she turns from the grave of her husband, and looks upon her
fatherless children.
With a strong effort, Marshall remained in the house until breakfast
was on the table. But he could only sip a little coffee, and soon
arose, and lifted his hat to go out. His wife was by his side, as he
laid his hand on the door.
"Jonas," she said, while the tears sprang to her eyes, "remember
me--remember your children!" She could say no more; sobs choked her
utterance--and she leaned her head, weak and desponding, upon his
shoulder.
Her husband made no reply, but gently placed her in a chair, kissed
her cheek, and then turned hastily away, and left the house.
It was many minutes before Mrs. Marshall found strength to rise, and
then she staggered across the room, like one who had been stunned by
a blow. We will not attempt the vain task of describing her feelings
through that terrible day;--of picturing the alternate states of
hope and deep despondency, that now made her heart bound with a
lighter emotion,--and now caused it to sink low, and almost
pulseless, in her bosom. It passed away at last, and brought the
gloomy night--fall--but not her husband's return. Eight, nine, ten,
eleven, and twelve o'clock came, and went, and still he was absent.
For an hour she had been seated by the window, listening for the
sound of his approaching footsteps. As the clock struck twelve, she
started, listened for a moment still more intently, and then arose
with a deep sigh, her manner indicating a state of irresolution.
First she went softly to the bed, and stood looking down for some
moments upon the faces of her little ones, sleeping calmly and
sweetly, all unconscious of the anguish that swelled their mother's
heart almost to bursting. Then she raised her head, and again
assumed a listening attitude. An involuntary sigh told that she had
listened in vain. A few moments after she was aroused from a state
of deep abstraction of thought, by a strong shudder passing through
her frame, occasioned by some fearful picture which her excited
imagination had conjured up. She now went hastily to a wardrobe, and
took out her bonnet and shawl. One more glance at her children, told
her that they were sleeping soundly. In the next minute she was in
the street, bending her steps she knew not whither, in search of her
husband.
Almost involuntarily, Mrs. Marshall took her way towards that
portion of the city where she had, on the night previous,
unexpectedly found him. It was not longer before she paused by the
door at the same drinking-house from which her husband had been
thrust, when he fell, almost lifeless, at her feet. Although it was
past twelve o'clock, the sound of many voices came from within,
mingled with wild excitement, and boisterous mirth.
Now came a severe trial for her shrinking, sensitive feelings. How
could she, a woman, and alone, enter such a place, at such an hour,
on such an errand? The thought caused a sensation of faintness to
pass over her, and she leaned for a moment against the side of the
door to keep from falling. But affection and thoughts of duty
quickly aroused her, and resolutely keeping down every weakness, she
placed her hand upon the door, which yielded readily to even her
light hand, and in the next moment found herself in the presence of
about a dozen men, all more or less intoxicated. Their loud, insane
mirth was instantly checked by her entrance. They were all men who
were in the habit of mingling daily in good society, and more than
one of them knew Marshall, and instantly recognised his wife. No
rudeness was, of course, offered her. On the contrary, two or three
came forward, and kindly inquired, though they guessed too well, her
errand there at such an hour.
"Has my husband been here to-night, Mr.--?" she asked, in a
choking voice, of one whose countenance she instantly recognised.
"I have not met with him, Mrs. Marshall," was the reply, in a kind,
sympathizing tone, "but I will inquire if any one here has seen
him."
These inquiries were made, and then Mr.--came forward again, and
said, in a low tone,
"Come with me, Mrs. Marshall."
As the two emerged into the street, Mr.--said,
"I would not, if I were you, madam, attempt to look further for your
husband. I have just learned that he is safe and well, only a little
overcome, by having, accidentally, I have no doubt, drunken a little
too freely. In the, morning he will come home, and all will, I
trust, be right again."
"What you say, I know, is meant in kindness, Mr.--," Mrs. Marshall
replied, in a firmer tone, the assurance that her husband was at
least safe from external danger, being some relief to her, "but I
would rather see my husband, and have him taken home. Home is the
best place for him, under any circumstances--and I am the most
fitting one to attend to him. Will you, then, do me the favour to
procure a hack, and go with me to the place where he is to be
found?"
Mr.--saw that in the manner and tone of Mrs. Marshall which made
him at once resolve to do as she wished him. The hack was procured,
into which both entered. Directions were given, in a low tone, to
the driver, and then they rattled away over the resounding pavement,
for a space of time that seemed very long to the anxious wife. At
last the hack stopped, the door was opened, and the steps thrown
down. When Mrs. Marshall descended, she found herself in a narrow,
dark street, before a low, dirty-looking tavern, the windows and
doors of which had been closed for the night.
While Mr.--was knocking loudly for admission, her eyes, growing
familiar with the darkness, saw something lying partly upon the
street and partly upon the pavement a few yards from her, that grew
more and more distinct, the more intently she looked at it.
Advancing a few steps, she saw that it was the body of a man,--a few
paces further, revealed to her eyes the form of her husband. An
exclamation of surprise and alarm brought both Mr.--and the
hack-driver to her side.
In attempting to raise Marshall to his feet, he groaned heavily, and
writhed with a sensation of pain. Something dark upon the pavement
attracted the eye of his wife. She touched it with her hand, to
which it adhered, with a moist, oily feeling. Hurrying to the lamp
in front of the hack, with a feeling of sudden alarm, she lifted her
hand so that the light could fall upon it. It was covered with
blood!
With a strong effort, she kept down the sudden impulse that she felt
to utter a wild scream, and went back to Mr.--and communicated to
him the alarming fact she had discovered. Marshall was at once laid
gently down upon the pavement, and a light procured, which showed
that his pantaloons, above, below, and around the knees, were
saturated with blood.
"O, Mr.--! what can be the matter?" Mrs. Marshall said, in husky
tones, looking up, with a face blanched to an ashy paleness.
"Some passing vehicle has, no doubt, run over him--but I trust that
he is not much hurt. Remain here with him, until I can procure
assistance, and have him taken home."
"O, sir, go quickly!" the poor wife replied, in earnest tones.
In a short time, four men, with a litter, were procured, upon which
Marshall, now groaning, as if acutely conscious of pain, was placed,
and slowly conveyed home. A surgeon reached the house as soon as the
party accompanying the injured man. An examination showed that his
legs had been broken just above the knees. And one of them had the
flesh dreadfully torn and bruised, and both were crushed as if run
over by some heavy vehicle. A still further examination showed the
fracture to be compound, and extensive; but, fortunately, the knee
joint had entirely escaped. Already the limbs had swollen very
considerably, exhibiting a rapidly increasing inflammation. This was
a natural result flowing from the large quantity of alcohol which he
had evidently been taking through the day and evening.
Fortunately, notwithstanding the morbid condition of his body, and
the nature and extent of the injury he had sustained, the vital
system of Marshall, unexhausted by a long-continued series of
physical abuse from drinking, rallied strongly against the violent
inflammation that followed the setting of the bones, and dressing of
the wounds, and threw off the too apparent tendency to mortification
that continued, much to the anxiety of the surgeon, for many days.
During this time, he suffered almost incessant pain--frequently of
an excruciating character. The severity of this pain entirely
destroyed all desire for intoxicating drink. This desire, however,
gradually began to return, as the pain, which accompanied the
knitting of the bones, subsided. But he did not venture to ask for
it, and, of course, it was not offered to him.
With the most earnest attentions, and the tenderest solicitude, did
Mrs. Marshall wait and watch by the bedside of her husband, both day
and night, wearing down her own strength, and neglecting her
children.
At the end of three weeks, he had so far recovered, as to be able to
sit up, and to bear a portion of his weight. As fear for the
consequences of the injury her husband had received, began to fade
from the mind of Mrs. Marshall, another fear took possession of
it--a heart-sickening fear, under which her spirit grew faint. There
was no pledge to bind him, and his newly-awakened desire for liquor,
she felt sure would bear him away inevitably, notwithstanding the
dreadful lesson he had received.
About this time, however, two or three of his temperance friends,
who had heard of his fall, came to see him. This encouraged her,
especially as they soon began to urge him again to sign the
pledge;--but he would not consent.
"It is useless," was his steady reply, to all importunities, and
made usually, in a mournful tone, "for me to sign another pledge.
Having broken one, wilfully and deliberately, I have no power to
keep another. I am conscious of this--and, therefore, am resolved
not to stain my soul with another sin."
"But you can keep it. I am sure you can," one friend, more
importunate than the rest, would repeatedly urge. "You broke your
first pledge, deliberately, because you believed that you were freed
from the old desire, even in a latent form. Satisfied, from painful
experience, that this is not the case, you will not again try so
dangerous an experiment."
But Marshall would shake his head, sadly, in rejection of all
arguments and persuasions.
"It may all seem easy enough for you," he would sometimes say, "who
have never broken a solemn pledge; but you know not how utter a
destruction of internal moral power such an act, deliberately done,
effects. I am not the man I was, before I so wickedly violated that
solemn compact made between myself and heaven--for so I now look
upon it. While I kept my pledge, I had the sustaining power of
heaven to bear me safely up against all temptations;--but since the
very moment it was broken, I have had nothing but my own strength to
lean upon, and that has proved to be no better than a broken reed,
piercing me through with many sorrows."
To such declarations, in answer to arguments, and sometimes earnest
entreaties made by his friends to induce him to renew his pledge,
Mrs. Marshall would listen in silence, but with a sinking, sickening
sensation of mind and body. All and more than she could say, was
said to him, but he resisted every appeal--and what good could her
weak persuasions and feeble admonitions do?
Day after day passed on, and Marshall gradually gained more use of
his limbs. In six weeks, he could walk without the aid of his
crutches.
"I think I must try and get down to the store to-morrow," he said,
to his wife, about this time. "This is a busy season, and I can be
of some use there for two or three hours, every day."
"I don't think I would venture out yet," Mrs. Marshall said, looking
at him, with an anxious, troubled expression of countenance, that
she tried in vain to conceal.
"Why not, Jane?"
"I don't think you are strong enough, dear."
"O, yes, I am. And, besides, it will do me good to go out and take
the fresh air. You know that it is now six weeks since I have been
outside of the front door."
"I know it has. But--"
"But what, Jane?"
"You know what I would say, Jonas. You know the terrible fear that
rests upon my heart like a night-mare."
And Mrs. Marshall covered her face with her hands, and gave way to
tears.
A long silence followed this. At length Marshall said,
"I hope, Jane, that I shall be able to restrain myself. I am, at
least, resolved to try."
"O, husband, if you will only try!" Mrs. Marshall ejaculated
eagerly, lifting her tearful eyes, and looking him with an appealing
expression in the face--"If you will only try!"
"I will try, Jane. But do not feel too much confidence in my effort.
I am weak--so weak that I tremble when I think of it--and remember
what an almost irresistible influence I have to contend with."
"Why not take the pledge, again, Jonas?" said his wife, for the
first time she had urged that recourse upon him.
"You have heard my reasons given for that, over and over again."
"I know I have. But they never satisfied me."
"You would not have me add the sin of a double violation of a solemn
pledge to my already overburdened conscience?"
"No, Jonas. Heaven forbid!"
"The fear of that restrains me. I dare not again take it."
"Do you not deeply repent of your first violation?" the wife asked,
after a few moments of earnest thought. "Heaven knows how deeply."
"And Heaven, that perceives and knows the depth and sincerity of
that repentance, accepts it according to its quality. And just so
far as Heaven accepts the sincere offering of a repentant heart,
conscious of its own weakness, and mourning over its derelictions,
is strength given for combat in future temptations. The bruised reed
he will not break, nor quench the smoking flax. Hope, then, dear
husband! you are not cast off--you are not rejected by Heaven."
"O, Jane, if I could feel the truth of what you. say, how happy I
should be!--For the idea of sinking again into that hopeless,
abandoned, wretched condition, out of which this severe affliction
has lifted me, as by the hair of the head, is appalling!" was the
reply, to his wife's earnest appeal.
"Trust me, dear husband,--there is truth in what I say. He who came
down to man's lowest, and almost lost condition, that he might raise
him up, and sustain him against the assaults of his worst enemies,
has felt in his own body all the temptations that ever can assail
his children, and not only felt them, but successfully resisted and
conquered them; so that, there is no state, however low, in which
there is an earnest desire to rise out of evil, to which he does not
again come down, and in which he does not again successfully contend
with the powers of darkness. Look to Him, then, again, in a fixed
resolution to put away the evils into which you have fallen, and you
must, you will be sustained!"
"O, if I could but believe this, how eagerly would I again fly to
the pledge!" Marshall said, in an earnest voice.
"Fly to it then, Jonas, as to a city of refuge; for it is true. You
have felt the power of the pledge once-try it again. It will be
strength to you in your weakness, as it has been before."
Still Marshall hesitated. While he did so, his wife brought him
pens, ink and paper.
"Write a pledge and sign it, dear husband!" she urged, as she placed
them before him. "Think of me--of the joy that it will bring to my
heart--and sign."
"I am afraid, Jane."
"Can you stand alone?"
"I fear not."
"Are you not sure, that the pledge will restrain you some?"
"O, yes. If I ever take it again, I shall tremble under the fearful
responsibility that rests upon me."
"Come with me, a moment," Mrs. Marshall said, after a thoughtful
pause.
Her husband followed, as she led the way to an adjoining room, where
two or three bright-eyed children were playing in the happiest mood.
"For their sakes, if not for mine, Jonas, sign the pledge again,"
she said, while her voice trembled, and then became choked, as she
leaned her head upon his shoulder.
"You have conquered! I will sign!" he whispered in her ear.
Eagerly she lifted her head, arid looked into his face with a glance
of wild delight.
"O, how happy this poor heart will again be!" she ejaculated,
clasping her hands together, and looking upwards with a joyous
smile.
In a few minutes, a pledge of total abstinence from all kinds of
intoxicating drinks, was written out and signed. While her husband
was engaged in doing this, Mrs. Marshall stood looking down upon
each letter as it was formed by his pen, eager to see his name
subscribed. When that was finally done; she leaned forward on the
table at which he wrote, swayed to and fro for a moment or two, and
then sank down upon the floor, lost to all consciousness of external
things.
From that hour to this, Jonas Marshall has been as true to his
second pledge, even in thought, as the needle to the pole. So
dreadful seems the idea of its violation, that the bare recollection
of his former dereliction, makes him tremble.
"It was a severe remedy," he says, sometimes, in regard to his
broken legs; "and proved eminently successful. But for that, I
should have been utterly lost."
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
A THANKSGIVING STORY.
A MAN, who at first sight, a casual observer would have thought at
least forty or fifty years of age, came creeping out of an old,
miserable-looking tenement in the lower part of Cincinnati, a little
while after night-fall, and, with bent body and shuffling gait,
crossed the street an angle; and, after pausing for a few moments
before a mean frame building, in the windows of which decanters of
liquor were temptingly displayed, pushed open the door and entered.
It was early in November. Already the leaves had fallen, and there
was, in the aspect of nature, a desolateness that mirrored itself in
the feelings. Night had come, hiding all this, yet by no means
obliterating the impression which had been made, but measurably
increasing it; for, with the darkness had begun to fall a misty
rain, and the rising wind moaned sadly among the eaves.
A short time after sundown the man, to whom we have just referred,
came home to the comfortless-looking house we have seen him leaving.
All day he had turned a wheel in a small manufactory; and when his
work was done, he left, what to him was a prison-house, and retired
to the cheap but wretched boarding-place he had chosen, where were
congregated about a dozen men of the lowest class. He did not feel
happy. That was impossible. No one who debases himself by
intemperance can be happy; and this man had gone down, step by step,
until he attained a depth of degradation most sad to contemplate.
And yet he was not thirty years old! After supper he went out, as
usual, to spend the evening in drinking.
The man, fallen as he was, and lost to all the higher and nobler
sentiments of the heart, had experienced during the day a pressure
upon his feelings heavier than usual, that had its origin in some
reviving memories of earlier times.
The sound of his mother's voice had been in his ears frequently
through the day; and images of persons, places, and scenes, the
remembrance of which brought no joy to his heart, had many times
come up before him. At the supper-table, amid his coarse,
vulgar-minded companions, his laugh was not heard as usual; and,
when spoken to, he answered briefly and in monosyllables.
The tippling-house to which the man went to spend his day's earnings
and debase himself with drink, was one of the lowest haunts of vice
in the city. Gambling with cards, dominoes, and dice, occupied the
time of the greater number who made it a place of resort, and little
was heard there except language the most obscene and profane. For
his daily task at the wheel, the man was paid seventy-five cents a
day. His boarding and lodging cost him thirty-one and a quarter
cents,--and this had to be paid every night under penalty of being
expelled from the house. He was a degraded drunkard, and not
therefore worthy of confidence nor credit beyond a single day, and
he received none. What remained of the pittance earned, was
invariably spent in drink, or gambled away before he retired from
the grogshop for the night; when, staggering home, he groped his way
to his room, too helpless to remove his clothes, and threw himself
upon a straw pallet, that could scarcely be dignified with the name
of bed. This in outline, was the daily history of the man's life;
and daily the shadows of vice fell more and more darkly upon his
path.
The drinking-house had two rooms on the first floor. In front was a
narrow counter, six or eight feet in length, and behind this stood a
short, bloated, vice-disfigured image of humanity, ready to supply
the wants of customers. Two or three roughly-made pine tables, and
some chairs, stood around the room. The back apartment contained
simply chairs and tables, and was generally occupied by parties
engaged in games of chance, for small sums. Tobacco-smoke, the fumes
of liquor, and the polluted breaths of the inmates, made the
atmosphere of these rooms so offensive, that none but those who had
become accustomed to inhale it, could have endured to remain there
for a minute.
The man, on entering this den of vice, went to the counter and
called for whisky. A decanter was set before him, and from this he
poured into a glass nearly a gill of the vilest kind of stuff and
drank it off, undiluted. About half the quantity of water was sent
down after the burning fluid, to partially subdue its ardent
qualities; and then the man turned slowly from the bar. As he did
so, an individual who had seen him enter, and who had kept his eyes
upon him from the moment he passed through the door, came towards
him with a smile of pleasure upon his countenance, and reaching out
his hand, said, in an animated voice--
"How are you, Martin, my good fellow! How are you?"
And he grasped the poor wretch's hand with a hearty grip and shook
it warmly. Something like a smile lighted up the marred and almost
expressionless face of the miserable creature, as he gave to the
hand that had taken his a responsive pressure, and replied,
"Oh! very well, very well, considering all things."
"Bad night out," said the man, as he sat down near a stove, that was
sending forth a genial heat.
"Yes, bad enough," returned Martin. A thought of the damp and chilly
air without caused him to shiver suddenly, and draw a little nearer
to the stove.
"Which makes us prize a comfortable place like this, where we can
spend a pleasant evening among pleasant friends, so much the more."
"Yes. It's very pleasant," said Martin, spreading himself out before
the stove, with a hand upon each knee, and looking with an
absent-minded air, through the opening in the door, which had once
been closed by a thin plate of mica, and seeing strange forms in the
glowing coals.
"Pleasant after a hard day's work," remarked the man, with an
insinuating air.
"I don't know what life would be worth, if seasons of recreation and
social intercourse did not come, nightly, to relieve both body and
mind from their wearisomeness and exhaustion."
"Yes--yes. It's tiresome enough to have to sit and turn a wheel all
day," said Martin.
"And a relief to get into a place like this at night," returned the
man, rubbing his hands with animation.
"It's a great deal better than sitting at the wheel," sighed Martin.
"I should think it was! Come! won't you liquor."
"Thank you! I've just taken something."
"No matter. Come along, my good fellow, and try something more." And
he arose, as he spoke, and moved towards the bar.
Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so he followed
to the counter.
"What'll you take? Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or spirits? Any thing,
so it's strong enough to drink to old acquaintanceship. Ha! my boy?"
And he leered in Martin's face with a sinister expression, and
slapped him familiarly on the shoulder.
"Brandy," said Martin. "Brandy let it be! Nothing like brandy! Set
out your pure old Cogniac! Toby. A drink for the gods!"
"Prime stuff! that. It warms you to the very soles of your feet!"
added the, man after he had turned off his glass. "Don't you say so,
Martin?"
"Yes! and through your stockings, to your very shoes!"
"Hat ha! ha! He! he!" laughed the man with a forced effort. "Why,
Bill Martin, you're a wit!"
"It ain't Bill, it's the brandy," said the bar-keeper, with more
truth than jest.
"That brandy would put life into a grindstone!"
"It's put life into our friend here, without doubt." And as the very
disinterested companion of Martin said this, he slapped him again
upon the shoulder.
The two men turned from the bar and sat down again by the stove,
both getting more and more familiar and chatty.
"Suppose we try a game of dominoes or chequers?" at length suggested
the friend.
"No objection," replied Martin. "Any thing to make the time pass
agreeably. Suppose we say chequers?"
"Very well. Here's a board. We'll go into the backroom where it's
more quiet."
The two men retired into the little den in the rear of the bar-room,
where were several parties engaged at cards or dice.
"Here's a cozy little corner," said the pleasant friend of Martin.
"We can be as quiet as kittens."
"What's the stake?" he next inquired, as soon as the board was
opened and the pieces distributed. "Shall we say a bit?"
Martin received, at the close of each day, his earnings. Of his
seventy-five cents, he had already paid out for board thirty-one and
a quarter cents; and for a glass of liquor and some tobacco, six
cents more. So he had but thirty-seven and a half cents. This sum he
drew from his pocket, and counted over with scrupulous accuracy, so
as to be sure of the amount. While he was doing so, his companion's
eyes were fixed eagerly upon the small coins in his hands, in order,
likewise, to ascertain their sum.
"A bit let it be." And the man laid down a twelve-and-a-half-cent
piece.
"No! We'll start with a picayune," said Martin, selecting the
smaller coin and placing it on the table.
"That's too trifling. Say a bit," returned the man, but half
concealing the eager impatience he felt to get hold of the poor
wretch's money.
"Well, I don't care! Call it a bit, then," said Martin. And the coin
was staked.
An observer would have been struck with the change that now came
over Martin. His dull eyes brightened; something like light came
flashing into his almost expressionless face, and his lips arched
with the influx of new life and feeling. He moved his pieces on the
board with the promptness and skill of one accustomed to the game,
and, though he played with an opponent whose clearer head gave him
an advantage, he yet held his own with remarkable pertinacity, and
was not beaten until after a long and well-balanced struggle. But
beaten he was; and one-third of all he possessed in the world passed
from his hand.
Another twelve-and-a-half-cent piece was staked, and, in like
manner, lost.
"I can't go but a picayune this time," said Martin, when the pieces
were arranged for the third game. "My funds are getting too low."
"Very well, a picayune let it be. Any thing just to give a little
interest to the game. I'm sure you'll win this time."
And win Martin did. This elated him. He played another game and
lost. The next was no more successful. Only a single picayune now
remained. For a short time he hesitated about risking this. He
wanted more liquor; and, if he lost, there would be no means left to
gratify the ever burning thirst that consumed him. Not until the
close of the next day would he receive any money; and, without
money, he could get nothing. There were unpaid scores against him in
a dozen shops.
"Try again. Don't be afraid. You're a better player than I am.
You'll be sure to win. Luck lies in the last sixpence. Don't you
know that?"
Thus urged, Martin put down the last small remnant of his day's
earnings. The interest taken in the games had nearly counteracted
the effects of the liquor, and he was, therefore, able to play with
a skill nearly equal to that of his companion. Slowly and
thoughtfully he made his moves, and calculated the effect of every
change in the board with as much intelligence as it was possible for
him to summon to his aid. But luck, so called, was against him. His
three last pieces, kings, were swept from the board by a single play
of his adversary, at a moment when he believed himself sure of the
game. A bitter imprecation fell from his lips, as he turned from the
table, and thrusting his hands nearly to his elbows in his pockets,
stalked into the bar-room, leaving the man who had won from him the
remnant of his day's earnings for the twentieth time, to enjoy the
pleasures of success. This man was too much occupied in kind
attentions to others who were to be his victims, to even see Martin
again during the evening.
After having lost his last farthing, the latter, feeling miserable
enough, sat down at a table on which were three or four newspapers,
and tried to find in them something to interest his mind. He was
nearer to being sober than he had been for many weeks. On the night
before, he had gambled away his last penny, and the consequence was,
that he had been obliged to do without liquor all day. The effects
of the two glasses he had taken since nightfall had been almost
entirely obliterated by the excitement of the petty struggle through
which he had passed, and his mind was, therefore, in a more that
usually disturbed state. The day had been one of troubled feelings;
and the night found him less happy than he had been through the day.
As he ran his eye over the newspaper he was trying to read, pausing
now and then at a paragraph, and seeking to find in it something of
interest, the words, "Thanksgiving in Massachusetts," arrested his
attention, He read over the few lines that followed this heading.
They were a simple statement of the fact, that a certain day in
November had been appointed as a thanksgiving day by the Governor of
Massachusetts, followed by these brief remarks by some editor who
had recorded the fact:--"How many look forward to this day as a time
of joyful re-union! And such it is to thousands of happy families.
But, somehow, we always think of the vacant places that death or
absence leaves at many tables; and of the shadows that come over the
feelings of those who gather in the old homestead. Of the absent,
how many are wanderers, like the poor prodigal! And how gladly would
they be received if they would only return, and let all the unhappy
past be forgotten and forgiven! Does, by any chance, such a
wanderer's eye fall upon these few sentences? If so, we do earnestly
and tenderly entreat him, by the love of his mother, that is still
with him, no matter how far he has gone from the right path, to come
back on this blessed day; and thus make the thanksgiving of that
mother's heart complete."
Every word of this appeal, which seemed as if it were addressed
directly to himself, touched a responsive feeling in the bosom of
Martin. One after another, images of other days passed before
him--innocent, happy days. His mother's face, his mother's voice,
her very words were present with unwonted vividness. Then came the
recollection of blessed re-unions on the annual Thanksgiving
festival. The rush of returning memories was too strong for the
poor, weak, depressed wanderer from home and happiness. He felt the
waters of repentance gathering in his eyes; and he drew his hand
suddenly across them, with an instinctive effort to check their
flow. But a fountain, long sealed, had been touched; and, ere he was
more than half aware of the tendency of his feelings, a tear came
forth and rested on his cheek. It was brushed away quickly. Another
followed, and another. The man had lost his self-control. Into one
of the lowest haunts of vice and dissipation the voice of his mother
had come, speaking to him words of hope. Even here had her image
followed him, and he saw her with the old smile of love upon her
face. And he saw the smile give way to looks of sorrow, and heard
the voice saying, in tones of the tenderest entreaty, "William! my
poor wanderer! come home! Come home!"
Oh! with what deep, heart-aching sincerity did the poor wretch wish
that he had never turned aside into the ways of folly. "If I could
but go home and die!" he said, mentally.
"If I could but feel my mother's hand upon my forehead, and hear her
voice again!"
He had remained sitting at the table with the newspaper before his
face, to hide from other eyes all signs of emotion. But, the new
feelings awakened were, in no degree, congenial to the gross,
depraved, and sensual sphere by which he was surrounded; and, as he
had no money left, and, therefore, no means of gratifying his thirst
for liquor, there was no inducement for him longer to breathe the
polluted atmosphere. Rising, therefore, he quietly retired; no one
asking him to stay or expressing surprise at his departure He had no
money to spend at the bar, nor to lose at the gaming. table; and was
not, therefore, an object of the slightest interest to any.
As Martin stepped into the street, the cold rain struck him in the
face, and the chilly air penetrated his thin, tattered garments. The
driving mist of the early evening had changed to a heavy shower, and
the street was covered with water. Through this he plunged as he
crossed over, and entered his boarding-house, dripping from head to
foot. He did not stop to speak with any one, but groped his way, in
the dark to the attic. Removing a portion of his wet clothing, he
threw himself upon his bed. He had not come to sleep, but to be
alone that he might think. But thought grew so painful that he would
fain have found relief in slumber, had that been possible.
"If I had never strayed from the right path!" he murmured, as he
tossed himself uneasily. "Oh! if I had never strayed!"
"Go back?" he said, aloud, after some minutes' silence, answering to
his own thoughts. "No--no! I will not blast them by my presence. Let
them be happy."
But the wish to return, once felt, grew every moment stronger, and
he struggled against it until, at last, after hours of bitter
remorse and repentance, weary nature yielded, and he fell off into a
more quiet sleep than he had known for weeks. In this sleep came
many dreams, all of home, the old pleasant home, around which
clustered every happy memory of his life; and when morning came, it
found him longing to return to that home with an irrepressible
desire.
"I will go back," said he, in a firm voice, as he arose at day's
dawn, his mind clear and calm. "I will go home. Home--home!"
This proved no mere effervescence of the mind. The idea, once fully
entertained, kept possession of his thoughts. His first resolution
was to save his earnings until he had enough to procure decent
clothing and pay his passage back. A week he kept to this
resolution, not once tasting a drop of any intoxicating liquor. But
by that time he was so impatient of delay, that he changed his
purpose, and procured a situation as deck-hand on board a steamboat
that was about leaving for Pittsburg. For this service, he was to
receive three dollars for the trip, besides being furnished with his
meals. During his week of sobriety, he had been able to save two
dollars. With this money he got an old pair of boots mended which
his employer at the manufactory had given him, and had his clothes
repaired and washed, all of which materially improved his
appearance, and gave occasion for several of his fellow-workmen to
speak encouragingly, which strengthened him greatly in his good
purpose.
During the passage up the river, Martin was subjected to many
temptations, and once or twice came near falling into his old ways.
But thoughts of home came stealing into his mind at the right
moment, and saved him.
With three dollars in his pocket, the wages he had received from the
steamboat captain, Martin started for Philadelphia on foot. He was
eight days on the journey. When he arrived, his boots were worn
through, his money all expended, and himself sick with fatigue, sad
and dispirited. Luckily he met an old acquaintance, who was a hand
on board a schooner loading with coal for Boston. The vessel was to
pass through the canal, and then go by the way of Long Island Sound.
Martin told his story to this old crony, who had once been a hard
drinker but was now reformed, and he persuaded the captain to give
him a passage.
Just two weeks from the time of his leaving Cincinnati, Martin saw
the sails expand above him, and felt the onward movement of the
vessel that was to bear him homeward. His heart swelled with sad yet
pleasant emotions. It was a long time since he had heard from home;
and longer still since he had seen the face of any member of his
family. For years he had been a wanderer. Now returning, a mere
wreck, so marred in every feature, and so changed, that even love
would almost fail to recognize him, the eyes of his mind were bent
eagerly forward. And, as the distance grew less and less, and he
attempted to realize more and more perfectly the meeting soon to
take place, his heart would beat heavily in his bosom, and a dimness
come before his mental vision.
Thanksgiving, that day of days in New England, had come round again.
Among the thousands by whom it was celebrated as a festive occasion,
were the Martins, who resided in a village only a few miles from
Boston. Old Mr. and Mrs. Martin had four children, two sons and two
daughters. One of the daughters remained at home. Rachel, the oldest
of the daughters, was in her twenty-third year; and Martha was
nineteen. The former was married and lived in the village. Thomas,
next older than Rachel, was also married. He resided ten miles away.
The oldest of them all, William, was a wanderer; or, for ought they
knew to the contrary, had long since passed to his great account. As
many as five years had gone by since there had come from him any
tidings; and nearly eight years since his place had been vacant at
the Thanksgiving re-unions.
The day rose calm and bright on happy thousands. Perhaps no family
in all New England would have experienced a purer delight on this
occasion, than that of the Martins, had not the vacant place of an
absent member reminded them of the wandering, it might be the lost.
Thomas was there with his gentle wife and three bright children;
Rachel with her husband and babe; and Martha with her sweet young
face, that was hardly ever guiltless of a smile. But William was
away; and the path in which he was treading, if he were yet alive,
was hidden from their view by clouds and darkness.
Dinner, that chiefest event of every Thanksgiving day, was served
immediately after the return of the family from church. It had been
prepared by the hands of Martha, and she was in the act of taking an
enormous turkey from the oven, when a man came to the door, and,
without speaking a word, stood and looked at her attentively. She
noticed him as she turned from the oven. He was a sad looking object
for a New England village on Thanksgiving day. His eyes were sunken,
his face thin and pale, and his old tattered garments hung loosely
on his meager limbs. He looked like one just from a bed of sickness,
and he bent, leaning upon a rough stick, like an old man yielding to
the weight of years. Yet, poor and weak as he seemed, his clothes
were clean, and his face had been recently shaven.
Struck with his appearance, Martha paused and looked at him
earnestly.
"Will you let me rest here for a little while?" said the stranger,
as soon as he had attracted Martha's attention.
"Oh! yes. Sit down," replied Martha, whose sympathies were instantly
awakened by the man's appearance. And she handed him a chair.
Just then, Rachel, who had taken off her things on returning from
church, came into the kitchen to assist Martha with the dinner. She
merely glanced at the man; but he fixed upon her a most earnest
look, and followed her about with his eyes as she moved from one
part of the room to another.
"Martha!" called Mrs. Martin from the adjoining room. Neither of the
sisters saw the start which the man gave, nor observed the quick
flush that went over his face, as he turned his head in the
direction from which the sound came.
Martha ran in to see what her mother wanted. In a little while she
came back, and, as she entered the kitchen, she could not help
remarking the strange earnestness with which the man looked at her.
Presently, Mrs. Martin herself came in. She was surprised at seeing
the miserable looking object who had intruded himself upon them at a
time that seemed so inopportune.
"Who is that, Martha?" she asked in a low voice, aside.
"I don't know," was answered in the same low tone--not so low,
however, as to be inaudible to the quick ears of the stranger.
"What is he doing here?"
"He asked me if I would let him rest for a little while; and I
couldn't say no."
"He looks sick; and he must be very poor."
"Yes, poor, indeed!" returned Mrs. Martin with a sigh; a thought of
her own poor wanderer crossing her mind. This thought caused her to
turn to the man and say to him,
"Have you been sick, my friend?"
The man who had been looking at her intently from the moment that
she entered the room, now turned his face partly away as he
replied--
"Yes. I've been sick for a number of days, but I am better now."
"You look very poor."
"I am poor--poor indeed!"
"You do not belong to these parts?"
"I do not deserve to," replied the man, low and evasively.
"Where do your friends live?"
"I don't know that I have any friends," said the man. There was a
slight tremor in his voice, that thrilled, answeringly, a chord in
the heart of his questioner.
"No friends!"
"There still live those who were once my friends."
"And why not your friends now?"
The man shook his head, sadly.
"I have proved myself unworthy, and, doubtless, they have long since
cast me forth from their regard."
"Then you have no mother," said Mrs. Martin, quickly. "A mother's
love cannot die."
"I have a mother, and I have sisters," replied the man, after a
pause. "Feel kindly towards me for their sakes. I have wandered
long; but I am repentant; and, now returning to my old home, I
seek--"
The voice that had been low and unsteady at the beginning, sunk
sobbing into silence, and the stranger's head drooped upon his
bosom. At that moment, Mr. Martin entered, and seeing the man, he
exclaimed--
"Who in the world is this?"
"William?" fell half joyfully, half in doubting inquiry, from the
mother's lips.
"My mother!" ejaculated the stranger, starting forward, and falling
into her open arms.
"William--William!" said Mr. Martin. "Oh! no! It cannot be!"
"It is! Yes! It is my poor, poor boy!" replied the mother,
disengaging herself from his clasping arms, and pushing him off so
that she could get a full view of his face. "Oh! William! My son! my
son!" And again she hugged him wildly to her bosom.
How freely the tears of joy mingled on that happy Thanksgiving day,
need not be told. There was no longer a vacant place at the board;
and thought turned not away, doubtingly, in a vain search for the
absent and the wandering. The long lost had been found; the straying
member had come home. Theirs was, indeed, a Thanksgiving festival.
Such joy as is felt in heaven over a sinner that repenteth, made
glad the mother's heart that day. And it has been glad ever since,
for, though Thanksgiving days have come again and again, there has
been no absent member since William's return.
JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE.
"YOU'LL sign it, I'm sure," said a persevering Washingtonian, who
had found his way into a little village grogshop, and had there
presented the pledge to some three or four of its half-intoxicated
inmates. The last man whom he addressed, after having urged the
others to no effect, was apparently about thirty years of age, and
had a sparkling eye, and a good-humoured countenance, that attracted
rather than repelled. The marks of the destroyer were, however, upon
him, showing themselves with melancholy distinctness.
"You'll sign, I'm sure, Jim."
"O, of course," replied the individual addressed, winking, as he did
so to the company, as much as to say--"Don't you want to see fun?"
"Yes, but you will, I know?"
"Of course I will. Where's the document?"
"Here it is,"--displaying a sheet of paper with sundry appropriate
devices, upon which was printed in conspicuous letters,
"We whose names--," &c.
"That's very pretty, aint it, Ike?" said Jim, or James Braddock,
with a mock seriousness of tone and manner.
"O, yes--very beautiful."
"Just see here," ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette over the
pledge.--"This spruce chap, swelled out with cold-water until just
ready to burst, and still pouring in more, is our friend Malcom
here, I suppose."
A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to the company
exceedingly humorous. But Malcom took it all in good part, and
retorted by asking Braddock who the wretched looking creature was
with a bottle in his hand, and three ragged children, and a pale,
haggard, distressed woman, following after him.
"Another cold-water man, I suppose, "Jim Braddock replied; but
neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies was so hearty as
before.
"O, no. That's a little mistake into which you have fallen, "Malcom
said, smiling. "He is one of your firewater men. Don't you see how
he has been scorched with it, inside and out. Now, did you ever see
such a miserable looking creature? And his poor children--and his
wife! But I will say nothing about them. The picture speaks for
itself."
"Here's a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a temperance
speech!" cried the keeper of the grog-shop, coming from behind his
counter, and mingling with the group.
"O, yes.--Give us a temperance speech!" rejoined Jim Braddock, not
at all sorry to get a good excuse for giving up his examination of
the pledge, which had revived in his mind some associations of not
the pleasantest character in the world.
"No objection at all," replied the ready Washingtonian, mounting the
rostrum which the tavern-keeper had indicated, to the no small
amusement of the company, and the great relief of Jim Braddock, who
began to feel that the laugh was getting on the wrong side of his
mouth, as he afterwards expressed it.
"Now for some rare fun!" ejaculated one of the group that gathered
around the whiskey-barrel upon which Malcom stood.
"This is grand sport!" broke in another.
"Take your text, Mr. Preacher!" cried a third.
"O yes, give us a text and a regular-built sermon!" added a fourth,
rubbing his hands with great glee.
"Very well," Malcom replied, with good humour. "Now for the text."
"Yes, give us the text," ran around the circle.
"My text will be found in Harry Arnold's grog-shop, Main street,
three doors from the corner. It is in these
words:--'Whiskey-barrel.' Upon this text I will now, with your
permission, make a few remarks."
Then holding up his pledge and laying his finger upon the wretched
being there represented as the follower after strong drink, he went
on--
"You all see this poor creature here, and his wife and
children--well, as my text and his fall from happiness and
respectability are inseparably united, I will, instead of giving you
a dry discourse on an empty whiskey-barrel, narrate this man's
history, which involves the whiskey-barrel, and describes how it
became empty, and finally how it came here. I will call him James
Bradly--but take notice, that I call him a little out of his true
name, so as not to seem personal.
"Well, this James Bradly was a house-carpenter--I say _was_--for
although still living, he is no longer an industrious
house-carpenter, but a very industrious grog-drinker,--he has
changed his occupation. About five years ago, I went to his house on
some business. It was about dinner-time, and the table was set, and
the dinner on it.
"'Come, take some dinner with me,' Mr. Bradly said, in such a kind
earnest way, that I could not resist, especially as his wife looked
so happy and smiling, and the dinner so neatly served, plentiful and
inviting. So I sat down with Mr. and Mrs. Bradly, and two fat,
chubby-faced children; and I do not think I ever enjoyed so pleasant
a meal in my life.
"After dinner was over, Mr. Bradly took me all through his house,
which was new. He had just built it, and furnished it with every
convenience that a man in mode. rate circumstances could desire. I
was pleased with everything I saw, and praised everything with a
hearty good will. At last he took me down into the cellar, and
showed me a barrel of flour that he had just bought--twenty bushels
of potatoes and turnips laid in for the winter, five large fat hogs,
and I can't remember what all. Beside these, there was a barrel of
something lying upon the cellar floor.
"'What is this?' I asked.
"'O, that is a barrel of whiskey that I have laid in also.'
"'A barrel of whiskey!' I said, in surprise.
"'Yes. I did some work for Harry Arnold, and the best I could do was
to take this barrel of good old 'rye' in payment. But it is just as
well. It will be a saving in the end.'
"'How so?' I asked.
"'Why, because there are more than twice as many drams in this
barrel of whiskey, as I could get for what I paid for it. Of course,
I save more than half.'
"'But have you taken into your calculation the fact, that, in
consequence of having a barrel of whiskey so handy, you will drink
about two glasses to one that you would want if you had to go down
to Harry Arnold's for it every time!'
"'O yes, I have,' Bradly replied. 'But still I calculate on it being
a saving, from the fact that I shall not lose so much time as I
otherwise would do. A great deal of time, you know, is wasted in
these dram-shops.'
"'All true. But have you never considered the danger arising from
the habitual free use of liquor--such a free use as the constant
sight of a whole barrel of whiskey may induce you to make?'
"'Danger!' ejaculated Mr. Bradly in surprise.
"'Yes, danger,' I repeated.
"'Of what?' he asked.
"'Of becoming too fond of liquor,' I replied.
"'I hope you do not wish to insult me in my own house, Mr. Malcom,'
the carpenter said, rather sternly.
"'O no,' I replied. 'Of course I do not. I only took the liberty
that a friend feels entitled to use, to hint at what seemed to me a
danger that you might be running into blindly.'
"Mrs. Bradly, who had gone through the house with us, enjoying my
admiration of all their comfortable arrangements, seemed to dwell
with particular interest on what I said in reference to the
whiskey-barrel. She was now leaning affectionately upon her
husband's arm--her own drawn through his, and her hands clasped
together--looking up into his face with a tender and confiding
regard. I could not help noticing her manner, and the expression of
her countenance. And yet it seemed to me that something of concern
was on her face, but so indistinct as to be scarcely visible. Of
this I was satisfied, when she said,
"'I don't think there is much use in drinking liquor, do you, Mr.
Malcom?'
"'I cannot see that there is,' I replied, of course.
"'Nor can I. Of one thing I think I am certain, and that is, that
James would be just as comfortable and happy without it as with it.'
"'You don't know what you are talking about, Sally,' her husband
replied good-humouredly, for he was a man of excellent temper, and a
little given to jesting. 'But I suppose you thought it good for you
last christmas, when you got boozy on egg-nog.'
"'O James, how can you talk so!' his wife exclaimed, her face
reddening. 'You know that you served me a shameful trick then.'
"'What do you think he did, Mr. Malcom?' she added, turning to me,
while her husband laughed heartily at what she said. 'He begged me
to let him make me a little wine egg-nog, seeing that I wouldn't
touch that which had brandy in it, because liquor always flies to my
head. To please him, I consented, though I didn't want it. And then,
the rogue fixed me a glass as strong again with brandy as that which
I had refused to take. I thought while I was drinking it, that it
did not taste like wine, and told him so. But he declared that it
was wine, and that it was so sweet that I could not clearly perceive
its flavour. Of course I had to go to bed, and didn't get fairly
over it for two or three days. Now, wasn't that too bad, Mr.
Malcom!'
"'Indeed it was, Mrs. Bradly,' I said in reply.
"'It was a capital joke, though, wasn't it?' rejoined her husband,
laughing immoderately.
"'I'll tell you a good way to retort on him,' I said, jestingly.
"'How is that, Mr. Malcom?'
"Pull the tap out of his whiskey-barrel.'
"'I would, if I dared.'
"'She'd better not try that, I can tell her.'
"'What would you do, if I did?' she asked.
"'Buy two more in its place, and make you drink one of them.'
"'O dear! I must beg to be excused from that. But, indeed, James, I
wish you would let it run. I'm really ashamed to have it said, that
my husband keeps a barrel of whiskey in the house.'
"'Nonsense, Sally! you don't know what you are talking about.'
"'Well, perhaps I don't,' the wife said, and remained silent, for
there was a half-concealed rebuke in her husband's tone of voice.
"I saw that I could say no more about the whiskey-barrel, and so I
dropped the subject, and, in a short time, after having finished my
business with Mr. Bradly, went away.
"'Well, how comes on the whiskey-barrel?' I said to him, about a
month after, as we met on the road.
"'First-rate,' was his reply. 'It contains a prime article of good
old 'rye,' I can tell you. The best I have ever tasted. Come, won't
you go home with me and try some?'
"'No, I believe not.'"
"'Do now--come along,' and he took me by the button, and pulled me
gently. 'You don't know how fine it is. I am sure there is not
another barrel like it in the town.'
"'You must really excuse me, Bradly,' I replied, for I found that he
was in earnest, and what was more, had a watery look about the eyes,
that argued badly for him, I thought.
"'Well, if you won't, you won't,' he said. 'But you always were an
unsocial kind of a fellow.'
"And so we parted. Six months had not passed before it was rumoured
through the neighbourhood, that Bradly had begun to neglect his
business; and that he spent too much of his time at Harry Arnold's.
I met his wife one day, about this time, and, really, her distressed
look gave me the heart ache. Something is wrong, certainly, I said
to myself. It was only a week after, that I met poor Bradly
intoxicated.
"'Ah, Malcom--good day--How are you?' he said, reeling up to me and
offering his hand.--'You havn't tried that good old rye of mine yet.
Come along now, it's most gone.'
"'You must excuse me today, Mr. Bradly,' I replied, trying to pass
on.
"But he said I should not get off this time--that home with him I
must go, and take a dram from his whiskey-barrel. Of course, I did
not go. If there had been no other reason, I had no desire, I can
assure you, to meet his wife while her husband was in so sad a
condition. After awhile I got rid of him, and right glad was I to do
so."
"Come, that'll do for one day!" broke in Harry Arnold, the
grog-shop-keeper, at this point, not relishing too well the
allusions to himself, nor, indeed, the drift of the narrative, which
he very well understood.
"No--no--go on! go on!" urged two or three of the group. But Jim
Braddock said nothing, though he looked very thoughtful.
"I'll soon get through," replied the Washingtonian, showing no
inclination to abandon his text. "You see, I did not, of course, go
home with poor Bradly, and he left me with a drunken, half-angry
malediction. That night he went down into his cellar, late, to draw
some whiskey, and forgot his candle, which had been so carelessly
set down, that it set fire to a shelf, and before it was discovered
the fire had burned through the floor above.
"Nearly all their furniture was saved, whiskey-barrel and all, but
the house was burned to the ground. Since that time, Bradly will
tell you that luck has been against him. He has been going down,
down, down, every year, and now does scarcely anything but lounge
about Harry Arnold's grog-shop and drink, while his poor wife and
children are in want and suffering, and have a most wretched look,
as you may see by this picture on the pledge. As for the
whiskey-barrel, that was rolled down here about a month ago, and
sold for half a dollar's worth of liquor, and here I now stand upon
it, and make it the foundation of a temperance speech.
"Now, let me ask you all seriously, if you do not think that James
Bradly owes his rapid downfall, in a great measure, to the fact that
Harry Arnold would not pay him a just debt in anything but whiskey?
And against Harry Arnold really your friend, that you are so willing
to beggar your wives and children to put money in his till? I only
ask the questions. You can answer then at your leisure. So ends my
speech."
"You are an insulting fellow, let me tell you!" the grog-shop-keeper
said, as he turned away, angrily, and went behind his counter.
The Washingtonian took no notice of this, but went to Jim Braddock,
who stood in a musing attitude near the door, and said--
"You will sign now, won't you, Jim?"
"No, I will not!" was his gruff response.
"I am not going to sign away my liberty for you or anybody else. So
long as I live, I'll be a free man."
"That's right, Jim! Huzza for liberty!" shouted his companions.
"Yes, huzza for liberty! say I," responded Braddock, in the effort
to rally himself, and shake off the thoughts and feelings that.
Malcom's narrative had conjured up a narrative that proved to be too
true a history of his own downfall.
"It was a shame for you to do what you did down at Harry Arnold's,"
Braddock said to the Washingtonian about half an hour afterwards,
meeting him on the street.
"Do what, Jim!"
"Why, rake up all my past history as you did, and insult Harry in
his own house into the bargain."
"How did I insult Harry Arnold?"
"By telling about that confounded whiskey-barrel that I have wished
a hundred times had been in the bottom of the sea, before it ever
fell into my hands."
"I told the truth, didn't I?"
"O yes--it was all true enough, and a great deal too true."
"He owed you a bill?"
"Yes."
"And you wanted your money?"
"Yes."
"But Harry wouldn't pay you in anything but whiskey?"
"No, he would not."
"And so you took a barrel of whiskey, that you did not want, in
payment?"
"I did."
"But would much rather have had the money?"
"Of course, I would."
"And yet, you are so exceedingly tender of Harry Arnold's feelings,
notwithstanding his agency in your ruin, that you would not have him
reminded of his original baseness--or rather his dishonesty in not
paying you in money, according to your understanding with him, for
your work?"
"I don't see any use in raking up these old things."
"The use is, to enable you to see your folly so clearly as to cause
you to abandon it. I am sure you not only see it now, but feel it
strongly."
"Well, suppose I do?--what then?"
"Why, sign the pledge, and become a sober man."
"I've made up my mind never to sign a pledge," was the emphatic
answer.
"Why?"
"Because, I am determined to live and die a free man. I'll never
sign away my liberty. My father was a free man before me, and I will
live and die a free man!"
"But you're a slave now."
"It is not true! I am free.--Free to drink, or free to et it alone,
as I choose."
"You are mistaken, Jim. You have sold yourself into slavery, and the
marks of the chains that still bind you, are upon your body. You are
the slave of a vile passion that is too strong for your reason."
"I deny it. I can quit drinking if I choose."
"Then why don't you quit?"
"Because I love to drink."
"And love to see your wife's cheek growing paler and paler every
day--and your children ragged and neglected?"
"Malcom!"
"I only asked the question, Jim."
"But you know that I don't love to see them in the condition they
are."
"And still, you say that you can quit drinking whenever you choose,
but will not do so, because you love the taste, or the effect of the
liquor, I don't know which?"
Braddock's feelings were a good deal touched, as they had been, ever
since Malcom's temperance speech in the grog-shop. He stood silent
for some time, and then said--
"I know it's too bad for me to drink as I do, but I will break off."
"You had better sign the pledge then."
"No, I will not do that. As I have told you, I am resolved never to
sign away my liberty."
"Very well. If you are fixed in your resolution, I suppose it is
useless for me to urge the matter. For the sake, then, of your wife
and children, break away from the fetters that bind you, and be
really free. Now you are not only a slave, but a slave in the most
debasing bondage."
The two then separated, and Jim Braddock--in former years it was Mr.
Braddock--returned to his house; a very cheerless place, to what it
had once been. Notwithstanding his abandonment of himself to drink
and idleness, Braddock had no ill-nature about him. Though he
neglected his family, he was not quarrelsome at home. she might, and
talked hard to him, he never retorted, but always turned the matter
off with a laugh or a jest. With his children, he was always
cheerful, and frequently joined in their sports, when not too drunk
to do so. All this cool indifference, as it seemed to her,
frequently irritated his wife, and made her scold away at him with
might and main. He had but one reply to make whenever this occurred,
and that was--
"There--there--Keep cool, Sally! It will all go in your lifetime,
darling!"
As he came into the house after the not very pleasant occurrence
that had taken place at Harry Arnold's, he saw by Sally's excited
face and sparkling eyes that something was wrong.
"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked.
"Don't ask me what's the matter, if you please!" was her tart reply.
"Yes, but I want to know? Something is wrong."
"Something is always wrong, of course," Sally rejoined--"and
something always will be wrong while you act as you do: It's a
burning shame for any man to abuse his family as you are abusing
yours. Jim--"
"There--there. Keep cool, Sally! It will all go in your lifetime,
darling!" Jim responded, in a mild, soothing tone.
"O yes:--It's very easy to say 'keep cool!' But I'm tired of this
everlasting 'keep cool!' Quit drinking and go to work, and then
it'll be time to talk about keeping cool. Here I've been all the
morning scraping up chips to make the fire burn. Not a stick in the
wood-pile, and you lazing it down to Harry Arnold's. I wish to
goodness he was hung! It's too bad! I'm out of all manner of
patience!"
"There--there. Keep cool, Sally! It'll all go--"
"Hush, will you!" ejaculated Sally, stamping her foot, all patience
having left her over-tried spirit. "Keep away from Harry Arnold's!
Quit drinking, and then it'll be time for you to talk to me about
keeping cool!"
"I'm going to quit, Sally," Jim replied, altogether unexcited by her
words and manner.
"Nonsense!" rejoined Sally. "You've said that fifty times."
"But I'm going to do it now."
"Have you signed the pledge?"
"No. I'm not going to sign away my liberty, as I have often said.
But I'm going to quit."
"Fiddle-de-de! Sign away your liberty! You've got no liberty to sign
away! A slave, and talk of liberty!"
"Look here, Sally," her husband said, good-humouredly, for nothing
that she could say ever made him get angry with her--"you're a
hard-mouthed animal, and it would take a strong hand to hold you in.
But as I like to see you go at full gallop, darling, I never draw a
tight rein. Aint you most out of breath yet?"
"You're a fool, Jim!"
"There's many a true word spoken in jest, Sally," her husband
responded in a more serious tone; "I have been a most egregious
fool--but I'm going to try and act the wise man, if I havn't
forgotten how. So now, as little Vic. said to her mother--
'Pray, Goody, cease and moderate
The rancour of your tongue.'"
Suddenly his wife felt that he was really in earnest, and all her
angry feelings subsided--
"O James!" she said--"if you would only be as you once were, how
happy we might all again be!"
"I know that, Sally. And I'm going to try hard to be as I once was.
There's a little job to be done over at Jones', and I promised him
that I would do it for him today. but I got down to Harry Arnold's,
and there wasted my time until I was ashamed to begin a day's work.
But to-morrow morning I'll go over, and stick at it until it's done.
It'll be cash down, and you shall have every cent it comes to, my
old girl!" patting his wife on the cheek as he said so.
Mrs. Braddock, of course, felt a rekindling of hope in her bosom.
Many times before had her husband promised amendment, and as often
had he disappointed her fond expectations. But still she suffered
her heart to hope again.
On the next morning, James Braddock found an early breakfast ready
for him when he got up. His hand trembled a good deal as he lifted
his cup of coffee to his lips, which was insipid without the usual
morning-dram to put a taste in his mouth. He did not say much, for
he felt an almost intolerable craving for liquor, and this made him
serious. But his resolution was strong to abandon his former habits.
"You won't forget, James?" his wife said, laying her hand upon his
arm, and looking him earnestly and with moistened eyes in the face,
as he was about leaving the house.
"No, Sally, I won't forget. Take heart, my good girl. Let what's
past go for nothing. It's all in our lifetime."
And so saying, Braddock turned away, and strode off with a resolute
bearing. His wife followed with her eyes the form of her husband
until it was out of sight, and then closed the door with a
long-drawn sigh.
The way to Mr. Jones' house was past Arnold's grogshop, and as
Braddock drew nearer and nearer to his accustomed haunt, he felt a
desire, growing stronger and stronger every moment, to enter and
join his old associates over a glass of liquor. To this desire, he
opposed every rational objection that he could find. He brought up
before his mind his suffering wife and neglected children, and
thought of his duty to them. He remembered that it was drink, and
drink alone, that had been the cause of his downfall. But with all
these auxiliaries to aid him in keeping his resolution, it seemed
weak when opposed to desires, which long continued indulgence had
rendered inordinate. Onward he went with a steady pace, fortifying
his mind all the while with arguments against drinking, and yet just
ready at every moment to yield the contest he was waging against
habit and desire. At last the grog-shop was in sight, and in a few
minutes he was almost at the door.
"Hurrah! Here's Jim Braddock, bright and early!" cried one of his
old cronies, from among two or three who were standing in front of
the shop.
"So the cold-water-men havn't got you yet!" broke in another. "I
thought Jim Braddock was made of better stuff."
"Old birds aint caught with chaff!" added a third.
"Come! Hallo! Where are you off to in such a hurry, with your tools
on your back?" quickly cried the first speaker, seeing that Braddock
was going by without showing any disposition to stop.
"I've got a job to do that's in a hurry," replied Braddock,
pausing--"and have no time to stop. And besides, I've sworn off."
"Sworn off! Ha! ha! Have you taken the pledge?"
"No, I have not. I'm not going to bind myself down not to drink any
thing. I'll be a free man. But I won't touch another drop, see if I
do."
"O yes--we'll see. How long do you expect to keep sober?"
"Always."
"You'll be drunk by night."
"Why do you say so?"
"I say so--that's all; and I know so."
"But why do you say so? Come, tell me that."
"O, I've seen too many swear off in my time--and I've tried it too
often myself. It's no use. Not over one in a hundred ever sticks to
it; and I'm sure, Jim Braddock's not that exception."
"There are said to be a hundred reformed men in this town now. I am
sure, I know a dozen," Braddock replied.
"O yes. But they've signed the pledge."
"Nonsense! I don't believe a man can keep sober any the better by
signing the pledge, than by resolving never again to drink a drop."
"Facts are stubborn things, you know. But come, Jim, as you havn't
signed the pledge, you might as well come in and take a glass now,
for you'll do it before night, take my word for it."
It was a fact, that Braddock began really to debate the question
with himself, whether he should or not go in and take a single
glass, when he became suddenly conscious of his danger, turned away,
and hurried on, followed by the loud, jeering laugh of his old boon
companions.
"Up-hill work," he muttered to himself, as he strode onward.
An hour's brisk walking brought him to the residence of Mr. Jones,
nearly four miles away from the little town in which he lived, where
he entered upon his day's work, resolved that, henceforth, he would
be a reformed man. At first he was nervous, from want of his
accustomed stimulus, and handled his tools awkwardly. But after
awhile, as the blood began to circulate more freely, the tone of his
system came up to a healthier action.
About eleven o'clock Mr. Jones came out to the building upon which
Braddock was at work, and after chatting a little, said--
"This is grog time, aint it, Jim?"
"Yes sir, I believe it is," was the reply.
"Well, knock off then for a little while, and come into the house
and take a dram."
Now Mr. Jones was a very moderate drinker himself, scarcely touching
liquor for weeks at a time, unless in company. But he always kept it
in the house, and always gave it to his workmen, as a matter of
course, at eleven o'clock. Had he been aware of Braddock's effort to
reform himself, he would as soon have thought of offering him poison
to drink as whiskey. But, knowing his habits, he concluded,
naturally, that the grog was indispensable, and tendered it to him
as he had always done before, on like occasions.
"I've signed the pledge," were the words that instantly formed
themselves in the mind of Braddock--but were instantly set aside, as
that reason for not drinking would not have been the true one. Could
he have said that, all difficulty would have vanished in a moment.
"No objection, Mr. Jones," was then uttered, and off he started for
the house, resolutely keeping down every reason that struggled in
his mind to rise and be heard.
The image of Mr. Jones, standing before him, with a smiling
invitation to come and take a glass, backed by his own instantly
aroused inclinations, had been too strong an inducement. He felt,
too, that it would have been rudeness to decline the proffered
hospitality.
"That's not bad to take, Mr. Jones," he said, smacking his lips,
after turning off a stiff glass.
"No, it is not, Jim. That's as fine an article of whiskey as I've
ever seen," Mr. Jones replied, a little flattered at Braddock's
approval of his liquor. "You're a good judge of such matters."
"I ought to be." And as Jim said this, he turned out another glass.
"That's right--help yourself," was Mr. Jones' encouraging remark, as
he saw this.
"I never was backward at that, you know, Mr. Jones." After eating a
cracker and a piece of cheese, and taking a third drink, Braddock
went back and resumed his work, feeling quite happy.
After dinner Mr. Jones handed him the bottle again, and did the same
when he knocked off in the evening. Of course, he was very far from
being sober when he started for home. As he came into town, his way
was past Harry Arnold's, whose shop he entered, and was received
with a round of applause by his old associates, who saw at a glance
that Jim was "a little disguised." Their jokes were all received in
good part, and parried by treating all around.
When her husband left in the morning, Mrs. Braddock's heart was
lightened with a new hope, although a fear was blended with that
hope, causing them both to tremble in alternate preponderance in her
bosom. Still, hope would gain the ascendency, and affected her
spirits with a degree of cheerfulness unfelt for many months. As the
day began to decline towards evening, after putting everything about
the house in order, she took her three children, washed them clean,
and dressed them up as neatly as their worn and faded clothes would
permit. This was in order to make home present the most agreeable
appearance possible to her husband when he returned. Then she killed
a chicken and dressed it, ready to broil for his supper--made up a
nice short-cake, and set the table with a clean, white table-cloth.
About sundown, she commenced baking the cake, and cooking the
chicken, and at dusk had them all ready to put on the table the
moment he came in.
Your father is late," she remarked to one of the children, after
sitting in a musing attitude for about five minutes, after
everything was done that she could do towards getting supper ready.
As she said this, she got up and went to the door and looked long
and intently down the street in the direction that she expected him,
calling each distant, dim figure, obscured by the deepening
twilight, his, until a nearer approach dispelled the illusion. Each
disappointment like this, caused her feelings to grow sadder and
sadder, until at length, as evening subsided into night, with its
veil of thick darkness, she turned into the house with a heavy
oppressive sigh, and rejoined the children who were impatient for
their supper.
"Wait a little while," was her reply to their importunities. "Father
will soon be here now."
She was still anxious that their father should see their improved
appearance.
"O no"--urged one. "We want our supper now."
"O yes. Give us our supper now. I'm so sleepy and hungry," whined
another.
And to give force to these, the youngest began to fret and cry. Mrs.
Braddock could delay no longer, and so she set them up to the table
and gave them as much as they could eat. Then she undressed each in
turn, and in a little while, they were fast asleep.
When all was quiet, and the mother sat down to wait for her
husband's return, a feeling of deep despondency came over her mind.
It had been dark for an hour, and yet he had not come home. She
could imagine no reason for this, other than the one that had kept
him out so often before--drinking and company. Thus she continued to
sit, hour after hour, the supper untasted. Usually, her evenings
were spent in some kind of work--in mending her children's clothes,
or knitting them stockings. But now she had no heart to do anything.
The state of gloomy uncertainty that she was in, broke down her
spirits, for the time being.
Bedtime came; and still Braddock was away. She waited an hour later
than usual, and then retired, sinking back upon her pillow as she
did so, in a state of hopeless exhaustion of mind and body.
In the meantime, her husband had spent a merry evening at Harry
Arnold's, drinking with more than his accustomed freedom. He was the
last to go home, the thought of meeting his deceived and injured
wife, causing him to linger. When he did leave, it was past eleven
o'clock. Though more than half-intoxicated on going from the
grog-shop, the cool night air, and the thought of Sally, sobered him
considerably before he got home. Arrived there, he paused with his
hand on the door for some time, reluctant to enter. At last he
opened the door, and went quietly in, in the hope of getting up to
bed without his wife's discovering his condition. The third step
into the room brought his foot in contact with a chair, and over he
went, jarring the whole house with his fall. His wife heard
this--indeed her quick ear had detected the opening of the door--and
it caused her heart to sink like a heavy weight in her bosom.
Gathering himself up, Braddock moved forward again as steadily as he
could, both hands extended before him. A smart blow upon the nose
from an open door, that had insinuated itself between his hands,
brought him up again, and caused him, involuntarily, to dash aside
the door which shut with a heavy slam. Pausing now, to recall his
bewildered senses, he resolved to move forward with more caution,
and so succeeded in gaining the stairs, up which he went, his feet,
softly as he tried to put them down, falling like heavy lumps of
lead, and making the house echo again. He felt strongly inclined to
grumble about all the lights being put out, as he came into the
chamber--but a distinct consciousness that he had no right to
grumble, kept him quiet, and so he undressed himself with as little
noise as possible,--which was no very small portion, for at almost
every moment he stept on something, or ran against something that
seemed endowed for the time with sonorous power of double the
ordinary capacity,--and crept softly into bed.
Mrs. Braddock said nothing, and he said nothing. But long before her
eyelids closed in sleep, he was loudly snoring by her side. When he
awoke in the morning, Sally had arisen and gone down. A burning
thirst caused him to get up immediately and dress himself. There was
no water in the room, and if there had been, he could not have
touched it while there was to be had below a cool draught from the
well. So he descended at once, feeling very badly, and resolving
over again that he would never touch another drop of liquor as long
as he lived. Having quenched his thirst with a large bowl of cool
water drawn right from the bottom of the well, he went up to his
wife where she was stooping at the fire, and said--
"Sally, look here--"
"Go 'way, Jim," was her angry response.
"No, but Sally, look here, I want to talk to you," persisted her
husband.
"Go 'way, I say--I don't care if I never see you again!"
"So you've said a hundred times, but I never believed you, or I
might have taken you at your word."
To this his wife made no reply.
"I was drunk last night, Sally," Jim said, after a moment's silence.
"You needn't take the trouble to tell me that."
"Of course not. But an open confession, you know, is good for the
soul. I was drunk last night, then--drunk as a fool, after all I
promised--but I'm not going to get drunk again, so--"
"Don't swear any more false oaths, Jim: you've sworn enough
already."
"Yes, but Sally, I am going to quit now, and I want you to talk to
me like a good wife, and advise with me."
"If you don't go away and let me alone now, I'll throw these tongs
at you!" the wife rejoined, angrily, rising up and brandishing the
article she had named. "You are trying me beyond all manner of
patience!"
"There--there--keep cool, Sally. It'll all go into your lifetime,
darlin'," Jim replied, good-humouredly, taking hold of her hand, and
extricating the tongs from them, and then drawing his arm around her
waist, and forcing her to sit down in a chair, while he took one
just beside her.
"Now, Sally, I'm in dead earnest, if ever I was in my life," he
began, "and if you'll tell me any way to break off from this
wretched habit into which I have fallen, I'll do it."
"Go and sign the pledge, then;" his wife said promptly, and somewhat
sternly.
"And give up my liberty?"
"And regain it, rather. You're a slave now."
"I'll do it, then, for your sake."
"Don't trifle with me, any more, James; I can't bear it much longer,
I feel that I can't--" poor Mrs. Braddock said in a plaintive tone,
while the tears came to her eyes.
"I wont deceive you any more, Sally. I'll sign, and I'll keep my
pledge. If I could only have said--'I've signed the pledge,'
yesterday, I would have been safe. But I've got no pledge, and I'm
afraid to go out to hunt up Malcom, for fear I shall see a
grog-shop."
"Can't you write a pledge?"
"No. I can't write anything but a bill, or a label for one of your
pickle-pots."
"But try."
"Well, give me a pen, some ink, and a piece of paper."
But there was neither pen, ink, nor paper, in the house. Mrs.
Braddock, however, soon mustered them all in the neighbourhood, and
came and put them down upon the table before her husband.
"There, now, write a pledge," she said.
"I will." And Jim took up the pen and wrote--"Blister my feathers
if ever I drink another drop of Alcohol, or anything that will make
drunk come, sick or well, dead or alive!"
JIM BRADDOCK."
"But that's a queer pledge, Jim."
"I don't care if it is. I'll keep it."
"It's just no pledge at all."
"You're an old goose! Now give me a hammer and four nails."
"What do you want with a hammer and four nails?"
"I want to nail my pledge up over the mantelpiece."
"But it will get smoky."
"So will your aunty. Give me the hammer and nails."
Jim's wife brought them as desired, and he nailed his pledge up over
the mantelpiece, and then read it off with a proud, resolute air.
"I can keep that pledge, Sally, my old girl! And what's more, I will
keep it, too!" he said, slapping his wife upon the shoulder. "And
now for some breakfast in double quick time, for I must be at
Jones's early this morning."
Mrs. Braddock's heart was very glad, for she had more faith in this
pledge than she had ever felt in any of his promises. There was
something of confirmation in the act of signing his name, that
strengthened her hopes. It was not long before she had a good warm
breakfast on the table, of which her husband eat with a better
appetite than usual, and then, after reading his pledge over, Jim
started off.
As before, he had to go past Harry Arnold's, and early as it was,
there were already two or three of his cronies there for their
morning dram. He saw them about the door while yet at a distance,
but neither the grog-shop nor his old companions had now any
attraction for him. He was conscious of standing on a plain that
lifted him above their influence. As he drew near, they observed
him, and awaited his approach with pleasure, for his fine flow of
spirits made his company always desirable. But as he showed no
inclination to stop, he was hailed, just as he was passing, with,
"Hallo, Jim! Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"Off to my work like an honest, sober man," Jim replied, pausing to
return his answer. "I've taken the pledge, my hearties, and what's
more, I'm going to keep it. It's all down in black and white, and my
name's to it in the bargain,--so there's an end of the matter, you
see! Good bye, boys!--I'm sorry to leave you,--but you must go my
way if you want my company. Good bye, Harry! You've got the old
whiskey-barrel, and that's the last you'll ever get of mine. I never
had any good luck while it was in my house, and I am most heartily
glad it's out, and in your whiskey-shop, where I hope it will stay.
Good bye, old cronies!"
And so saying, Jim turned away, and walked off with a proud, erect
bearing. His old companions raised a feeble shout, but according to
Jim's account, the laugh was so much on the wrong side of their
mouths, that it didn't seem to him anything like a laugh.
At eleven o'clock, Mr. Jones came out as usual, and said--
"Well, Jim, I suppose you begin to feel a little like it was
grog-time?"'
"No, sir," Jim replied. "I'm done with grog."
"Done with grog!" ejaculated Mr. Jones, in pleased surprise.
"Why, you didn't seem at all afraid of it, yesterday?"
"I did drink pretty hard, yesterday; but that was all your fault."
"My fault! How do you make that out?"
"Clear enough. Yesterday morning, seeing what a poor miserable
wretch I had got to be, and how much my wife and children were
suffering, I swore of from ever touching another drop. I wouldn't
sign a pledge, though, because that, I thought, would be giving up
my freedom. In coming here, I got past Harry Arnold's grog-shop
pretty well, but when you came out so pleasantly at eleven o'clock,
and asked me to go over to the house and take a drink, I couldn't
refuse for the life of me--especially as I felt as dry as a bone. So
I drank pretty freely, as you' know, and went home, in consequence,
drunk at night, notwithstanding I had promised Sally, solemnly, in
the morning, never to touch another drop again as long as I lived.
Poor soul! Bad enough, and discouraged enough, she felt last night,
I know.
"So you see--when I got up this morning, I felt half-determined to
sign the pledge, at all hazards. Still I didn't want to give up my
liberty, and was arguing the points over again, when Sally took me
right aback so strongly that I gave up, wrote a pledge, signed it,
and nailed it up over the mantelpiece, where it has got to stay."
"I am most heartily glad to hear of your good resolution," Mr. Jones
said, grasping warmly the hand of Braddock--"and heartily ashamed of
myself for having tempted you, yesterday. Hereafter, I am resolved
not to offer liquor to any man who works for me. If my money is not
enough for him, he must go somewhere else. Well," he continued--"you
have signed away your liberty, as you called it. Do you feel any
more a slave than you did yesterday?"
"A slave? No, indeed! I'm a free man now! Yesterday I was such a
slave to a debased appetite, that all my good resolutions were like
cobwebs. Now I can act like an honest, rational man. I am in a state
of freedom. You ask me to drink. I say 'no'--yesterday I could not
say no, because I was not a free man. But now I am free to choose
what is right, and to reject what is wrong. I don't care for all the
grog-shops and whiskey-bottles from here to sun-down! I'm not afraid
to go past Harry Arnold's--nor even to go in there and make a
temperance speech, if necessary. Hurrah for freedom!"
It cannot be supposed that Jim's wife, after her many sad
disappointments, could feel altogether assured that he would stand
by his pledge, although she had more confidence in its power over
him than in anything else, and believed that it was the only thing
that would save him, if he could be saved at all. She was far more
cheerful, however, for her hope was stronger than it had ever been;
and went about her house with a far lighter step than usual.
Towards evening, as the time began to approach for his return, she
proceeded, as she had done on the day before, to make arrangements
for his comfortable reception. The little scene of preparation for
supper, and dressing up the children, was all acted over again, and
with a feeling of stronger confidence. Still, her heart would beat
at times oppressively, as a doubt would steal over her mind.
At last, the sun was just sinking behind a distant hill. It was the
hour to expect him. The children were gathered around her in the
door, and her eyes were afar off, eagerly watching to descry his
well-known form in the distance. As minute after minute passed away,
and the sun at length went down below the horizon, her heart began
to tremble. Still, though she strained her eyes, she could see
nothing of him,--and now the twilight began to fall, dimly around,
throwing upon her oppressed heart a deeper shadow than that which
mantled, like a thin veil, the distant hills and valleys. With a
heavy sigh, she was about returning into the house, when a slight
noise within caused her to turn quickly, and with a start.
"Back again, safe and sound, old girl!" greeted her glad ear, as the
form of her husband caught her eye, coming in at the back door.
"O, Jim!" she exclaimed, her heart bounding with a wild, happy
pulsation. "How glad I am to see you!"
And she flung herself into his arms, giving way, as she did so, to a
gush of joyful tears.
"And I'm glad enough to see you, too, Sally! I've thought about you
and the children all day, and of how much I have wronged you. But
it's all over now. That pledge has done it!" pointing up as he spoke
to his pledge nailed over the mantelpiece. "Since I signed that,
I've not had the first wish to touch the accursed thing that has
ruined me. I'm free, now, Sally! Free to do as I please. And that's
what I havn't been for a long time. As I told Mr. Jones, I don't
care now for all the grog-shops, whiskey-bottles, and Harry Arnolds,
from here to sun-down."
"I told you it was all nonsense, Jim, about signing away your
liberty!" Sally said, smiling through her tears of joy.
"Of course it was. I never was free before. But now I feel as free
as air. I can go in and come out and care no more for the sight of a
grog-shop, than for a hay-stack. I can take care of my wife and
children, and be just as kind to them as I please. And that's what I
couldn't do before. Huzza for the pledge, say I!
"Blister my feathers if ever I drink another drop of Alcohol, or
anything that will make drunk come, sick or well, dead or alive!"
That evening Jim Braddock sat down to a good supper with a smiling
wife, and three children, all cleanly dressed, and looking as happy
as they could be. The husband and father had not felt so light a
heart bounding in his bosom for years. He was free,--and felt that
he was free to act as reason dictated,--to work for and care for his
household treasures.
Nearly a year has passed, and Mr. James Braddock has built himself a
neat little frame house, which is comfortably furnished, and has
attached to it a well-cultivated garden. In his parlour, there
hangs, over the mantelpiece, his original pledge, handsomely framed.
Recently in writing to a friend, he says--
"You will ask, where did I get them?" (his new house, furniture,
&c.) "I'll tell you, boy. These are part payment for my _liberty_,
that I signed away. Didn't I sell it at a bargain? But this is not
all. I've got my shop back again, with a good run of custom--am ten
years younger than I was a year ago--have got the happiest wife and
the smartest boy in all creation--and don't care a snap for anybody!
So now, S. come down here; bring your wife, and all the
_responsibilities_, and I'll tell you the whole story--but I can't
write. _Hurrah for slavery!_ Good bye!
JIM BRADDOCK."
THE FAIR TEMPTER
OR, WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT.
"WHAT will you take, Haley?"
"A glass of water."
"Nonsense! Say, what will you take?"
"A glass of water. I don't drink anything stronger."
"Not a teetotaller? Ha! ha! ha!" rejoined the young man's companion,
laughing in mingled mirth and ridicule.
"Yes, a teetotaller, if you please," replied the one called
Haley.--"Or anything else you choose to denominate me."
"You're a member of a temperance society, then? ha! ha!"
"No, I am not."
"Don't belong to the cold-water men?"
"No."
"Then come along and drink with me! Here, what will you take?"
"Nothing at all, unless it be a glass of water. As I have just said,
I drink nothing stronger."
"What's the reason?"
"I feel as well--indeed, a great deal better without it."
"That's all nonsense! Come, take a julep, or a brandy-punch with
me."
"No, Loring, I cannot."
"I shall take it as an offence, if you do not."
"I mean no offence, and shall be sorry, if you construe into one an
act not so intended. Drink if you wish to drink, but leave me in
freedom to decline tasting liquor if I choose."
"Well, you are a strange kind of a genius, Haley--, but I believe I
like you too well to get mad with you, although I generally take a
refusal to drink with one as an insult, unless I know the person to
have joined a temperance society,--and then I should deem the insult
on my part, were I to urge him to violate his pledge. But I wonder
you have never joined yourself to some of these ultra
reformers--these teetotallers, as they call themselves."
"I have never done so,--and never intend doing so. It is sufficient
for me to decline drinking, because I do not believe that
stimulating beverages are good for the body or mind. I act from
principle in this matter, and, therefore, want no external
restraints."
"Then you are determined not to drink with me?"
"O, yes, I will drink with you."
"Cold-water?"
"Of course."
"One julep, and a glass of Adam's-ale," said Loring, turning to the
bar-keeper.
They were soon presented, glasses touched, heads bobbed, and the
contents of the two tumblers poured down their respective gullets.
"It makes a chill go over me to see you drinking that stuff," Loring
said, with an expression of disgust on his face.
"Every one to his taste, you know," was Haley's half-indifferent
response.
"You'll be over to-night, I suppose?" said a young man, stepping up
to him, as the two emerged from the "Coffee"-house--precious little
coffee was ever seen there.
"O, yes,--of course."
"You'd better not come."
"Why?"
"Clara's got a bottle of champaign that she says she's going to make
you taste this very night."
A slight shade flitted quickly over the face of Haley, as the young
man said this. But it was as quickly gone, and he replied with a
smile,
"Tell Clara it's no use. I'm an incorrigible cold-water man."
"She'll be too much for you."
"I'm not afraid."
"You'd be, if you were as well acquainted with her as I am. I never
knew that girl to set her head about anything in my life that she
didn't accomplish it. And she says that she will make you drink a
glass of wine with her, in spite of all your opposition."
"She'll find herself foiled once in her life," was the laughing
reply; "and so you may as well tell her that all her efforts will be
in vain, and thus save further trouble."
"No, I won't, though. I'll tell her to go on, while I stand off and
look at the fun. I'll bet on her, into the bargain, for I know
she'll beat."
"So will I, two to one!" broke in Loring--
"Don't be so certain of that."
"We'll see," was the laughing response, and then the young men
separated.
Manley, the individual who had met Loring and Haley at the
coffee-house door, was the brother of Clara, and Haley was her
accepted lover. The latter had removed to the city in which all the
parties resided, some two years before, from the east, and had
commenced business for himself. Nothing was known of his previous
life, or connections. But the pure gold of his character soon became
apparent, and guarantied him a reception into good society. All who
came into association with him, were impressed in his favour.
Steadily, however, during that time, had he persisted in not tasting
any kind of stimulating drinks. All kinds of stimulating condiments
at table, were likewise avoided. The circle of acquaintances which
had gradually formed around him, or into which, rather, he had been
introduced, was a wine and brandy-drinking set of young men, and he
was frequently urged to partake with them; but neither persuasion,
ridicule, nor pretended anger, could, in the least, move him from
his fixed resolution. Such scenes as that just presented, were of
frequent occurrence, particularly with recent acquaintances, as was
the case with Loring.
Within a year he had been paying attention to Clara Manley, a
happy-hearted young creature, over whose head scarce eighteen bright
summers had yet passed. Esteem and admiration of her mind and
person, had gradually changed into a pure and permanent affection,
which was tenderly and truly reciprocated.
Wine, in the house of Mr. Manley, was used almost as freely as
water. It was, with brandy, an invariable accompaniment of the
dinner-table, and no evening passed without its being served around.
Haley's refusal to touch it, was at first thought singular by Clara;
but she soon ceased to observe the omission, and the servant soon
learned in no case to present him the decanter. George Manley,
however, could not tolerate Haley's temperate habits, because he
thought his abstinence a mere whim, and bantered him upon it
whenever occasion offered. At last, he aroused Clara's mind into
opposition, and incited her to make an effort to induce her lover to
drink.
"What's the use of my doing it, brother?" she asked, when he first
alluded to it. "His not drinking does no harm to any one."
"If it don't, it makes him appear very singular. No matter who is
here--no matter on what occasion, he must adhere to his foolish
resolution. People will begin to think, after awhile, that he's some
reformed drunkard, and is afraid to taste a drop of any kind of
liquor."
"How can you talk so, George?" Clara said, with a half-offended air.
"So it will appear, Clara; and you can't help it, unless you laugh
him out of his folly."
"I don't wish to say anything to him about it."
"You're afraid."
"No, I am not, George."
"Yes, you are."
"What am I afraid of?"
"Why, you're afraid that you won't succeed."
"Indeed, then, and I am not. A mere notion like that I could easily
prevail on him to give up. I should be sorry, indeed, if I had not
that much influence over him."
"You'll find it a pretty hard notion to beat out of him, I can tell
you. I've seen half a dozen young men try for an hour by all kinds
of means to induce him to taste wine; but it was no use. He was
immovable."
"I don't care;--he couldn't refuse me, if I set myself about it."
"He could, and he would, Clara."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"Try him, then."
"I don't see any use in it. Let him enjoy his total-abstinence! if
he wishes to."
"I knew you were afraid."
"Indeed, I am not, then."
"Yes, you are."
"It's no such thing."
"Try him, then."
"I will, then, since it's come to that."
"He'll be too much for you."
"Don't flatter yourself. I'll manage him."
"How?"
"Why, I'll insist on his taking a glass of that delightful champaign
with me, which you sent home yesterday."
"Suppose he declines?"
"I won't take his refusal. He shall take a glass with me."
"We'll see, little sis'. I'll bet on Haley."--And so saying, the
young man turned away laughing at the success of his scheme.
That evening, towards nine o'clock, as Haley sat conversing with
Clara, a servant entered the room as usual with bottles and glasses.
George Manley was promptly on his feet, to cut the cork and "pop"
the champaign, which he did, while the servant stood just before
Clara and her lover.
"You must take a glass of this fine champaign with me, Mr. Haley,"
the young tempter said, turning upon him a most winning smile.
"Indeed, Clara--"
"Not a word now. I shall take no refusal."
"I must be--"
"Pour him out a glass, George."
And George filled two glasses, one of which Clara lifted, with the
sparkling liquor at the height of its effervescence.
"There's the other; take it quick, before it dies," she said,
holding her own glass near her lips.
"You must excuse me, Clara. I do not drink wine," Mr. Haley said, as
soon as he was permitted to speak, in a tone and with a manner that
settled the question at once.
"Indeed, it is too bad, Mr. Haley!" Clara responded, with a
half-offended air, putting her untasted glass of wine back upon the
waiter,--"to deny me so trifling a request. I must say, that your
refusal is very ungallant. Whoever heard of a gentleman declining to
take wine with a lady?"
"There certainly is an exception to the rule to-night, Clara," the
young man said. "Still, I can assure you, that nothing ungallant was
meant. But that you know to be out of the question. I could not be
rude to any lady, much less to you."
"O, as to that, it's easy to make fine speeches--but acts, you know,
speak louder than words"--Clara said, half-laughing--half-serious.
The servant had, by this time, passed on with the untasted wine;
and, of course, no further effort could be made towards driving the
young man from his position. His positive refusal to drink, however,
under the circumstances, very naturally disappointed Clara. He
observed the sudden revulsion of feeling that took place in her
mind, and it pained him very much.
As for her, she felt herself positively offended. She had set her
heart upon proving to her brother her power over Haley, but had
signally failed in the effort. He had proved to her immovable in his
singular position.
From that time, for many weeks, there was a coldness between him and
Clara. She did not receive him with her accustomed cordiality; but
seemed both hurt and offended. To take a simple glass of champaign
with her was so small a request, involving, as she reasoned, no
violation of principle, that for him to refuse to do so, under all
the circumstances, was almost unpardonable.
Affection, however, at last triumphed over wounded pride, but not
until he had begun, seriously, to debate the question of proposing
to her a dissolution of the contract existing between them.
Everything again went on smoothly enough, for there was no further
effort on the part of Clara to drive her lover from his resolution.
But she still entertained the idea of doing so--and still resolved
that she would conquer him.
At last the wedding-day was set, and both looked forward to its
approach with feelings of pure delight. Their friends, without an
exception, approved the match; and well they might, for he was a man
of known integrity, fine intellect, and cultivated tastes; and she a
young woman in every way fitted to unite with him in marriage bonds.
Finally came the long anticipated evening. Never before was there
assembled in the old mansion of Mr. Manley a happier company than
that which had gathered to witness the marriage of his daughter,
whose young heart trembled in the fulness of its delight, as she
uttered the sealing words of her union with one who possessed all
her heart.
"May kind heaven bless you, my child!" murmured the mother, as she
pressed her lips to those of her happy child.
"And make your life glide on as peacefully as a quiet stream," added
the father, kissing her in turn, scarcely refraining, as he did so,
from taking her in his arms and folding her to his bosom.
Then came crowding upon her the sincere congratulations of friends.
O, how happy she felt Joy seemed to have reached a climax. The cup
was so full, that a drop more would have overflowed the brim.
A few minutes sufficed to restore again the order that had reigned
through the rooms, and the servants appeared with the bride's cake.
All eyes were upon the happy couple.
"You won't refuse me _now_, James?" the bride said, in a low tone;
but with an appealing look, as she reached out her hand and lifted a
glass of wine.
There was a hesitation in the manner of Haley, and Clara saw it. She
knew that all eyes were upon them, and she knew that all had
observed her challenge. Her pride was roused, and she could not bear
the thought of being refused her first request after marriage.
"Take it, James, for my sake, even if you only place it to your lips
without tasting it," she said, in a low, hurried whisper.
The young husband could not stand this. He took the glass, while the
heart of Clara bounded with an exulting throb. Of course, having
gone thus far, he had to go through the form of drinking with her.
In doing so, he sipped but a few drops. These thrilled on the nerve
of taste with a sensation of exquisite pleasure. Involuntarily he
placed the glass to his lips again, and took a slight draught.
Then a sudden chill passed through his frame as consciousness
returned, and he would fain have dashed the glass from him as a
poisoning serpent that was preparing to sting him, but for the
company that crowded the rooms. From this state he was aroused by
the sweet voice of his young wife, saying, in happy tones--
"So it has not poisoned you, James."
He smiled an answer, but did not speak. The peculiar expression of
that smile, Clara remembered for many years afterwards.
"Come! you must empty your glass with me," she said, in a moment
after. "See! you have scarcely tasted it yet. Now--"
And she raised her glass, and he did the same. When he withdrew his
own from his lips, it was empty.
"Bravo!"--exclaimed Clara, in a low, triumphant tone.
"Now, isn't that delightful wine?"
"Yes, very."
"Did you ever taste wine before, James?" the bride laughingly said--
"O, yes, many a time. But none so exquisitely flavoured as this."
"Long abstinence has sweetened it to your taste."
"No doubt."
"Clara has been too much for you to-night, Haley," George Manley
said, coming up at this moment, and laughing in great glee.
"He couldn't refuse me on such an occasion"--the bride gaily
responded. "I set my heart on making him drink wine with me on our
wedding-night, and I have succeeded."
"Are you sure he hasn't poured it slyly upon the floor?"
"O, yes! I saw him take every drop. And what is more; he smacked his
lips, and said it was exquisitely flavoured."
"Here comes the servant again," George said, at this moment. "Come,
James! let me fill your glass again. You must drink with me
to-night. You've never given me that pleasure yet. Come!--As well be
hung for a sheep as a lamb." Thus importuned, Haley held up his
glass which George Manley filled to the brim.
"Health and happiness!" the young man said, bowing.
Haley bowed in return, placed the glass to his lips, and took its
contents at a draught.
"Bravely done! Why, it seems to go down quite naturally. You were
not always a total-abstinence man?"
"No, I was not."--While a slight shadow flitted over his face.
"Welcome back again, then, to a truly social, and convivial spirit!
After this, don't let me ever see you refuse a generous glass."
"What! An empty wine-glass in the hand of young Mr. Incorrigible!
Upon my word!" ejaculated old Mr. Manley, coming up at this moment.
"O, yes, pa! I've conquered him to-night! He couldn't refuse to take
a glass of wine with me on this occasion!" the daughter said, in
great glee.
"He must take one with me, too, then."
"You must excuse me, indeed, sir," Haley replied--rallying himself,
and bracing up into firmness his broken and still wavering
resolutions.
"Indeed, then, and I won't."
"O, no. Don't excuse him at all, pa! He drank with me, and then with
brother, and now to refuse to drink with you would be a downright
shame."
"He has taken a glass with George, too, has he? And now wants to be
excused when I ask him. Upon my word! Here, George, tell the servant
to come over this way."
The servant came, of course, in a moment or two, with the wine.
"Fill up his glass, George," the father said.
Haley's glass was, of course, filled again.
"Now, my boy!--Here's a health to my children! May this night's
happiness be but as a drop to the ocean of delight in reserve for
them." Drinking.
"And here's to our father! May his children never love him less than
they do now." Drinking in turn.
"Thank you, my boy!"
"And thank you in return, for your kind wishes."
"That wine didn't seem to taste unpleasantly, James?"
"O, no, sir. It is rich and generous."
"How long is it since you tasted wine?"
"About three years."
"Are you not fond of it?"
"O, yes. I like a good glass of wine."
"Then what in the world has made you act so singularly about it?"
"A mere whim of mine, I suppose you will call it. And perhaps it
was. I thought I was just as well without it."
"Nonsense! Don't let me ever again hear of this foolishness."
And then the old man mingled with the happy company.
"Come, James, you must drink with me, too," the mother said, a
little while afterward.
Haley did not seem unwilling, but turned off a glass of wine with an
air of real pleasure.
"You must drink with me, too," went through the room. Every little
while some one, with whom the young man had on former occasions
refused to drink, finding out that he had been driven from his
cold-water resolutions, insisted upon taking a glass with him. Such
being the case, it is not to be wondered at that a remark like this
should be made before the passage of an hour.
"See! As I live, Haley's getting lively!"
"I think that 'rich and generous wine' is beginning to brighten you
up a little," Mr. Manley said, about this time, slapping his
son-in-law familiarly upon the shoulder?
"I feel very happy, sir," was Haley's reply.
"That's right. This is a happy occasion."
"I never was so happy in my life! I hardly know what to do with
myself. Come! Won't you take some wine with me. I drank with you a
little while ago."
"Certainly! Certainly! My boy! Or, perhaps you would try a little
brandy."
"No objection," said the young man. And then the two went to the
side-board, and each took a stiff glass of brandy.
"That's capital! It makes me feel good!" ejaculated Haley, as he set
his empty glass down.
Cotillions were now formed, and the bride and groom took the floor
in the first set. Clara felt very proud of her husband as she leaned
upon his arm, waiting for the music to begin, and glanced around
upon her maiden companions with a look of triumph. But she soon had
cause to abate her exultation, for when the music struck up, and the
dancers commenced their intricate movements, she found that her
husband blundered so as to throw all into confusion. The reason of
this instantly flashed upon her mind, for she knew him to be a
correct and graceful dancer. _He was too much intoxicated to dance!
_ Her woman's pride caused her to make the effort to guide him
through the figures. But it was of no use. The second attempt failed
signally by his breaking the figures, and reeling with a loud,
drunken laugh, through and through, and round and round the
astonished group of dancers, thrown thus suddenly into confusion.
Poor Clara, overwhelmed with mortification, retired to a seat, while
her husband continued his antics, ending them finally with an Indian
whoop, such as may often be heard late at night in the streets, from
a company of drunken revellers,--when he sought her out, and came
and took a seat by her side.
"Aint you happy to-night, Clara! Aint you, old girl!" he said, in a
loud voice, striking her with his open hand upon the shoulder. "I'm
so happy that I feel just ready to jump out of my skin! Whoop!--Now
see how beautifully I can cut a pigeon's-wing."
And he sprang from his seat, and commenced describing the elegant
figure he had named, with industrious energy, much to the amusement
of one portion of the company, but to the painful mortification of
another. A circle was soon formed around him, to witness his
graceful movements, which strongly reminded those present who had
witnessed the performances, of a corn-field negro's Juba, or the
double-shuffle.
"Come," old Mr. Manley said, interrupting the young man in his
evolutions, by laying his hand upon his arm.
"Come! I want you a moment."
"Hel-lel-lel-lo, o-o, there! What's wanting? ha!" he said, pausing,
and then staggering forwards against Mr Manley. "Who are you, sir?"
"For shame, sir!" the old man replied in a stern voice. "Come with
me, I wish to speak to you."
"Speak here, then, will you? I've no se-se-secrets. I'm open and
above board! Jim Haley's the boy that knows what he's about!
Who-o-o-oop! Clear the track there!"
And starting away from the old man, he ran two or three paces, and
then sprang clear over the head of a young lady, frightening her
almost out of her wits.
"There! Who'll match me that? Jim Haley's the boy what's hard to
beat! Whoo-oo-oop, hurrah! But where's Clara? Where's my dear little
wifie? Ah! there--No, that isn't her, neither. Wh-wh-where is the
little jade?"
The whole of this passed in a few moments, with all the drunken
gestures required to give it the fullest effect.
Poor Clara, at first mortified, when she saw what a perfect madman
her husband had become, was so shocked that her feelings overcame
her, and she was carried fainting from the room. O, how bitter was
her momentary repentance of her blind folly, ere her bewildered
senses forsook her.
As for Haley, he grew worse and worse, until the brandy which he
continued to pour down, had completely stupified him, when he was
carried off to bed in a state of drunken insensibility; after which,
the company retired in oppressive and embarrassed silence.
Sad and lonely was the bridal chamber that night, and the couch of
the young bride was wet with bitter, but unavailing tears.
On the next morning, those who first entered the room where Haley
had slept, found it empty. Towards the middle of the day, a letter
was left for Clara by an unknown hand. It ran thus:
"DEAR CLARA--For you are still dear to me, although you have robbed
me of happiness for ever, and crushed your own hopes with mine. For
years before I came to this place, I had been a slave to
intoxication--a slave held in a fearful bondage. At last, I resolved
to break loose from my thraldom. One vigorous effort, and I was
free. There yet remained to me a small remnant of a wrecked fortune.
With this I abandoned my early home, and fixed my residence here,
determined once more to be a man. Temptations beset me on every
hand; but while I touched not, tasted not, handled not, I knew that
I was safe. But alas for the hour when you became my tempter! O,
that the remembrance of it could be blotted from my memory for ever!
When, for your sake, I raised that fatal glass to my lips, and the
single drop of wine that touched them thrilled wildly through every
nerve, I felt that I was lost. Horrible were my sensations, but your
tempting voice lured me to sip the scarcely tasted poison; I did so,
and my resolution was gone! All that occurred after that is only
dimly written on my memory. But I was a madman. That I can realize.
When drunk, I have always acted the madman. And now we part for
ever! I am a proud man, and cannot remain in the scene of my
disgrace. My property I leave for you, and go I know not, and care
not, whither--perhaps to die, unlamented, and unknown, and sink into
a drunkard's grave. Farewell!"
This letter bore neither name nor date. But they were not needed.
Five years from that sorrowful morning Clara sat by a window in her
father's house, near the close of day, looking dreamily up into the
serene and cloudless sky. Her face was pale, and had a look of
hopeless suffering. Five years!--It seemed as if twenty must have
passed over her head, each burdening her with a heavy weight of
affliction. O, what a wreck did she present! Five years of such a
life! Who can tell their history? She was alone; and sat with her
head upon her hand, and her eyes fixed, as if upon some object. But,
evidently, no image touched the nerve of vision. Presently her lips
moved, and a few mournful words were uttered aloud, almost
involuntarily.
"O, that I knew where he was! O, that I could but find him, if
alive!"
A slight noise startled her, and she turned quickly. Was it a
vision? Or did her long-lost husband stand before her, the shadow of
what he had been?
"Clara! Dear Clara!"
In a moment she was clinging to him with a trembling, eager,
convulsive grasp. Tenderly did he fold her in his arms, and press
his lips to hers fervently.
"Clara! Dear Clara!"
"My own dear husband!" was all she could utter, as she sank like a
helpless child on his bosom.
For four years from the night of his wedding, Haley had been a
common drunkard, with no power over himself. On the brink of the
grave, he was rescued, signed a pledge of total abstinence, and set
himself eagerly to work to elevate his condition. One year had
sufficed to efface many sad tokens of his degradation, but time
could not restore the freshness to his cheek, nor the light to his
eye. Then he returned and sought his bride, who still mourned him
with an inconsolable grief. A few months produced a happy change in
both. But they cannot look back. Over the past they throw a
veil,--the future is theirs, and it is growing brighter and
brighter. May its clear sky never be darkened!
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT.
"Is there a good fire in the little spare room Jane?" said Mr. Wade,
a plain country farmer, coming into the kitchen where his good wife
was busy preparing for supper.
"Oh, yes, I've made the room as comfortable as can be," replied Mrs.
Wade; "but I wish you would take up a good armful of wood now, so
that we wont have to disturb Mr. N--, by going into the room after
he gets here."
"If he should come this evening," remarked the husband. "But it is
getting late, and I am afraid he won't be here Before the morning."
"Oh, I guess he will be along soon. I have felt all day as if he
were coming."
"They say he is a good man, and preaches most powerfully. Mr. Jones
heard him preach in New York at the last conference, and tells me he
never heard such a sermon as he gave them. It cut right and left,
and his words went home to every heart like arrows of conviction."
"I hope he will be here this evening," remarked the wife as she put
some cakes in the oven.
"And so do I." remarked Mr. Wade, as he turned away, and went out to
the wood pile for an armfull of wood for the expected minister's
room.
It was Saturday afternoon, and nearly sundown. Mr. N--, who was
expected to arrive, and for whose comfort every preparation in their
power to make, had been completed by the family at whose house he
was to stay, was the new Presiding Elder of B--District, in the
New Jersey Conference. Quarterly meeting was to be held on the next
day, which was Sunday, when Mr. N--was to preach, and administer
the ordinances of the church. Being his first visit to that part of
the District, the preacher was known to but few, if any, of the
members, and they all looked forward to his arrival with interest,
and were prepared to welcome him with respect and affection.
The house of Mr. Wade was known as the 'minister's home.' For years,
in their movements through the circuit, the preachers, as they came
round to this part in the field of their appointed labor, were
welcomed by Brother and Sister Wade, and the little spare chamber
made comfort. able for their reception. It was felt by these
honest-hearted people, more a privilege than a duty, thus to share
their temporal blessings with the men of God who ministered to them
in holy things. They had their weaknesses, as we all have. One of
their weaknesses consisted in a firm belief that they were deeply
imbued with the genuine religion, and regarded things spiritual
above all worldly considerations. They were kind, good people,
certainly, but not as deeply read in the lore of their own hearts,
not as familiar with the secret springs of their own actions, as all
of us should desire to be. But this was hardly to be wondered at,
seeing that their position in the church was rather elevated as
compared with those around them, and they were the subjects of
little distinguishing marks flattering to the natural man.
While Mr. Wade was splitting a log at the wood-pile, his thoughts on
the new Presiding Elder, and his feelings warm with the anticipated
pleasure of meeting and entertaining him, a man of common appearance
approached along the road, and when he came to where the farmer was,
stood still and looked at him until he had finished cutting the log,
and was preparing to lift the cleft pieces in his arms.
"Rather a cold day this," said the man.
"Yes, rather," returned Mr. Wade, a little indifferently, and in a
voice meant to repulse the stranger, whose appearance did not
impress him very favorably.
"How far is it to D--?" inquired the man.
"Three miles," replied Mr. Wade, who having filled his arms with
wood, was beginning to move off towards the house.
"So far!" said the man in a tone that was slightly marked with
hesitation. "I thought it was but a little way from this." Then with
an air of hesitation, and speaking in a respectful voice, he added,
"I would feel obliged if you would let me go in and warm myself. I
have walked for two miles in the cold, an--as D--is still three
miles off, I shall be chilled through before I get there."
So modest and natural a request as this, Mr. Wade could not refuse,
and yet, in the way he said--"Oh, certainly"--there was a manner
that clearly betrayed his wish that the man had passed on and
preferred his request somewhere else. Whether this was noticed or
not, is of no consequence; the wayfarer on this assent to his
request, followed Mr. Wade into the house.
"Jane," said the farmer as he entered the house with the stranger,
and his voice was not as cordial as it might have been; "let this
man warm himself by the kitchen fire. He has to go all the way to
D--this evening and says he is cold."
There is a kind of magnetic intelligence in the tones of the voice.
Mrs. Wade understood perfectly, by the way in which this was said,
that the husband did not feel much sympathy for the stranger, and
only yielded the favor asked because he could not well refuse to
grant it. Her own observation did not correct the impression her
husband's manner had produced. The man's dress, though neither dirty
nor ragged, was not calculated to impress any one very favorably.
His hat was much worn, and the old gray coat in which he was
buttoned up to the chin, had seen so much service that it was
literally threadbare from collar to skirt, and showed numerous
patches, darns, and other evidences of needlework, applied long
since to its original manufacture. His cow-hide boots, though whole,
had a coarse look; and his long dark beard gave his face, not a very
prepossessing one at best, a no very attractive aspect.
"You can sit down there," said Mrs. Wade, a little ungraciously, for
she felt the presence of the man, just at that particular juncture,
as an intrusion; and she pointed to an old chair that stood. near
the fire-place, in front of which was a large Dutch oven containing
some of her best cream short cakes, prepared especially for Mr.
N--, the new Presiding Elder now momently expected.
"Thank you, Ma'am," returned the stranger, as he took the chair, and
drew close up to the blazing hearth, and removing his thick woolen
gloves, spread his hands to receive the genial warmth.
Nothing more was said by either the stranger or Mr. Wade, for the
space of three or four minutes. During this time, the good
house-wife passed in and out, once or twice, busy as could be in
looking after supper affairs. The lid of the ample Dutch oven had
been raised once or twice, and both the eyes and nose of the
traveller greeted with a pleasant token of the good fare soon to be
served up in the family. He was no longer cold; but the sight and
smell of the cakes and other good things in preparation by the lady,
awakened a sense of hunger, and made it keenly felt. But, as the
comfort of a little warmth had been bestowed so reluctantly, he
could not think of trespassing on the farmer and his wife for a bite
of supper, and so commenced drawing on his heavy woolen gloves, and
buttoning up his old gray coat. While occupied in doing this, Mr.
Wade came into the kitchen, and said--
"I'm afraid Jane, that the minister won't be along this evening.
It's after sun-down, and begins to grow duskish."
"He ought to have been here an hour ago," returned Mrs. W., in a
tone of disappointment.
"It's getting late, my friend, and D--'s a good distance ahead,"
remarked the farmer, after standing with his back to the fire, and
regarding for some moments the stranger, who had taken off his
gloves, and was slowly unbuttoning his coat again.
"It's three miles you say?"
"Yes, good three miles, if not more; and it will be dark in half an
hour."
"What direction must I take?" required the stranger.
"You keep along the road until you come to the meeting house on the
top of the hill, half a mile beyond this, and then you strike off to
the right, and keep straight on."
"What meeting house is it?"
"The D--Methodist Meeting House."
"You are expecting the minister, I think you just now said?"
"Yes. Mr. N--, our new Presiding Elder, is to preach to-morrow,
and he was to have been here this afternoon."
"He is to stay with you?"
"Certainly he is. The ministers all stay at my house."
The man got up, and went to the door and looked out.
"Couldn't you give me a little something to eat before I go," he
said, returning. "I havn't tasted food since this morning, and feel
a little faint."
"Jane, can't you give him some cold meat and bread?" Mr. Wade turned
to his wife, and she answered, just a little fretfully, "Oh, yes, I
suppose so;" and going to the cupboard, brought out a dish
containing a piece of cold fat bacon that had been boiled with
cabbage for dinner, and half a loaf of bread, which she placed on
the kitchen table and told the man to help himself. The stranger did
not wait for another invitation; but set to work in good earnest
upon the bread and bacon, while the farmer stood with his hands
behind him, and his back to the fire, whistling the air of "Auld
Lang Syne," while he mentally repeated the words of the hymn of
"When I can read my title clear," and wished that his visitor would
make haste and get through with his supper. The latter, after eating
for a short time with the air of a man whose appetite was keen,
began to discuss the meat and bread with more deliberation, and
occasionally to ask a question, or make a remark, the replies to
which were not very gracious, although Mr. Wade forced himself to be
as polite as he could be.
The homely meal at length concluded, the man buttoned up his old
coat and drew on his coarse woolen gloves again, and thanking Mr.
and Mrs. Wade for their hospitality, opened the door and looked out.
It was quite dark, for there was no moon, and the sky was veiled in
clouds. The wind rushed into his face, cold and piercing. For a
moment or two, he stood with his hand upon the door, and then
closing it he turned back into the house, and said to the farmer
"You say it is still three miles to D--?"
"I do," said Mr. Wade coldly.
"I said so to you when you first stopped, and you ought to have
pushed on like a prudent man. You could have reached there before it
was quite dark."
"But I was cold and hungry, and might have fainted by the way."
The manner of saying this touched the farmer's feelings a little,
and caused him to look more narrowly into the stranger's face than
he had yet done. But he saw nothing more than he had already seen.
"You have warmed and fed me, for which I am thankful. Will you not
bestow another act of kindness upon one who is in a strange place,
and if he goes out in the darkness may lose himself and perish in
the cold?"
The peculiar form in which this request was made, and the tone in
which it was uttered, put it almost out of the power of the farmer
to say no.
"Go in there and sit down," he (sic) answed, pointing to the
kitchen, "and I will see my wife, and hear what she has to say."
And Mr. Wade went into the parlor where the supper table stood,
covered with a snow-white cloth, and displaying his wife's set of
bluesprigged china, that was only brought out on special occasions.
Two tall mould candles were burning thereon, and on the hearth
blazed a cheerful hickory fire.
"Hasn't that old fellow gone yet?" asked Mrs. Wade. She had heard
his voice as he returned from the door.
"No. And what do you suppose? He wants us to let him stay all
night."
"Indeed, and we'll do no such thing! We can't have the likes of him
in the house, no how. Where could he sleep?"
"Not in the best room, even if Mr. N--shouldn't come."
"No, indeed!"
"But I really don't see, Jane how we can turn him out of doors. He
doesn't look like a very strong man, and it's dark and cold, and
full three miles to D--."
"It's too much! He ought to have gone on while he had daylight, and
not lingered here as he did until it got dark."
"We can't turn him out of doors, Jane; and it's no use to think of
it. He'll have to stay now."
"But what can we do with him?"
"He seems like a decent man, at least; and don't look as if he had
anything bad about him. We might make him a bed on the floor
somewhere."
"I wish he had been to Guinea before he came here," said Mrs. Wade,
fretfully. The disappointment, the conviction that Mr. N--would
not arrive, and the intrusion of so unwelcome a visitor as the
stranger, completely unhinged her mind.
"Oh, well, Jane," replied her husband in a soothing voice, "never
mind. We must make the best of it. Poor man! He came to us tired and
hungry, and we have warmed him and fed him. He now asks shelter for
the night, and we must not refuse him, nor grant his request in a
complaining reluctant spirit. You know what the Bible says about
entertaining angels unawares."
"Angels! Did you ever see an angel look like him?"
"Having never seen an angel," said the husband smiling, "I am unable
to speak as to their appearance."
This had the effect to call an answering smile to the face of Mrs.
Wade, and a better feeling to her heart. And it was finally agreed
between them, that the man, as he seemed like a decent kind of a
person, should be permitted to occupy the minister's room, if that
individual did not arrive, an event to which they both now looked
with but small expectancy. If he did come, why the man would have
put up with poorer accommodations.
When Mr. Wade returned to the kitchen where the stranger had seated
himself before the fire, he informed him, that they had decided to
let him stay all night. The man expressed in a few words his
grateful sense of their kindness, and then became silent and
thoughtful. Soon after, the farmer's wife, giving up all hopes of
Mr. N--'s arrival, had supper taken up, which consisted of coffee,
warm cream short cakes, and sweet cakes, broiled ham, and broiled
chicken. After all was on the table, a short conference was held, as
to whether it would do not to invite the stranger to take supper. It
was true, they had given him as much bread and bacon as he could
eat; but then, as long as he was going to stay all night, it looked
too inhospitable to sit down to the table and not ask him to join
them. So, making a virtue of necessity, he was kindly asked to come
in to supper, an invitation which he did not decline. Grace was said
over the meal by Mr. Wade, and then the coffee was poured out, the
bread helped, and the meat served.
There was a fine little boy of some five or six years old at the
table, who had been brightened up, and dressed in his best, in order
to grace the minister's reception. Charley was full of talk, and the
parents felt a natural pride in showing him off, even before their
humble guest, who noticed him particularly, although he had not much
to say.
"Come, Charley," said Mr. Wade, after the meal was over, and he sat
leaning back in his chair, "can't you repeat the pretty hymn mamma
learned you last Sunday?"
Charley started off, without further invitation, and repeated, very
accurately, two or three verses of a new camp-meeting hymn, that was
just then very popular.
"Now let us hear you say the Commandments, Charley," spoke up the
mother, well pleased at her child's performance. And Charley
repeated them with only the aid of a little prompting.
"How many commandments are there?" asked the father.
The child hesitated, and then looking up at the stranger, near whom
he sat, said, innocently,--
"How many are there?"
The man thought for some moments, and said, as if in doubt--
"Eleven, are there not?"
"Eleven!" ejaculated Mrs. Wade, looking towards the man in unfeigned
surprise.
"Eleven!" said her husband, with more of rebuke than astonishment in
his voice. "Is it possible, sir, that you do not know how many
Commandments there are? How many are there, Charley? Come! Tell me;
you know, of course."
"Ten," said the child.
"Right, my son," returned Mr. Wade, with a smile of approval.
"Right. Why, there isn't a child of his age within ten miles who
can't tell you that there are ten Commandments. "Did you never read
the Bible, sir?" addressing the stranger.
"When I was a little boy, I used to read in it sometimes. But I'm
sure I thought there were eleven Commandments. Are you not mistaken
about there being only ten?"
Sister Wade lifted her hands in unfeigned astonishment, and
exclaimed--
"Could any one believe it? Such ignorance of the Bible!"
Mr. Wade did not reply, but he arose, and going to one corner of the
room, where the Good Book lay upon a small mahogany stand, brought
it to the table, and pushing away his plate, cup and saucer, laid
the volume before him, and opened that portion in which the
Commandments are recorded.
"There!" he said, placing his finger upon a proof of the man's
error. "There! Look for yourself!"
The man came round from his side of the table, and looked over the
farmer's shoulder.
"There! Ten;--d'ye see!"
"Yes, it does say ten," replied the man. "And yet it seems to me
there are eleven. I'm sure I have always thought so."
"Doesn't it say ten, here?" inquired Mr. Wade, with marked
impatience in his voice.
"It does certainly."
"Well, what more do you want? Can't you believe the Bible?"
"Oh, yes I believe in the Bible, and yet, somehow, it strikes me
that there must be eleven Commandments. Hasn't one been added
somewhere else?"
Now this was too much for Brother and Sister Wade to bear. Such
ignorance on sacred matters they felt to be unpardonable. A long
lecture followed, in which the man was scolded, admonished and
threatened with Divine indignation. At its close, he modestly asked
if he might have the Bible to read for an hour or two, before
retiring to rest. This request was granted with more pleasure than
any of the preceding ones. Shortly after supper the man was
conducted to the little spare room accompanied by the Bible. Before
leaving him alone, Mr. Wade felt it his duty to exhort him on
spiritual things, and he did so most earnestly for ten or fifteen
minutes. But he could not see that his words made much impression,
and he finally left his guest, lamenting his ignorance and obduracy.
In the morning, the man came down, and meeting Mr. Wade, asked him
if he would be so kind as to lend him a razor, that he might remove
his beard, which did not give his face a very attractive aspect. His
request was complied with.
"We will have family prayer in about ten minutes," said Mr. Wade, as
he handed him a razor and a shaving-box.
In ten minutes the man appeared and behaved himself with due
propriety at family worship. After breakfast he thanked the farmer
and his wife for their hospitality, and departing, went on his
journey.
Ten o'clock came, and Mr. N--had not yet arrived. So Mr. and Mrs.
Wade started off for the meeting house, not doubting that they would
find him there. But they were disappointed. A goodly number of
people were inside the meeting house, and a goodly number outside,
but the minister had not yet arrived.
"Where is Mr. N--?" inquired a dozen voices, as a little crowd
gathered around the farmer.
"He hasn't come yet. Something has detained him. But I still look
for him; indeed, I fully expected to find him here."
The day was cold, and Mr. Wade, after becoming thoroughly chilled,
concluded to go in, and keep a look-out for the minister from the
window near which he usually sat. Others, from the same cause,
followed his example, and the little meeting house was soon filled,
and still one after another came dropping in. The farmer, who turned
towards the door each time it opened, was a little surprised to see
his guest of the previous night enter, and come slowly along the
aisle, looking from side to side as if in search of a vacant seat,
very few of which were now left. Still advancing, he finally passed
within the little enclosed altar, and ascending to the pulpit, took
off his old gray overcoat and sat down.
By this time Mr. Wade was by his side, and with his hand upon his
arm.
"You mustn't sit here. Come down, and I'll show you a seat," he said
in an excited tone.
"Thank you," returned the man, in a composed tone. "It is very
comfortable here."
"But you are in the pulpit! You are in the pulpit, sir!"
"Oh, never mind. It is very comfortable here." And the man remained
immovable.
Mr. Wade, feeling much embarrassed, turned away, and went down,
intending to get a brother official in the church to assist him in
making a forcible ejection of the man from the place he was
desecrating. Immediately upon his doing so, however, the man arose,
and standing up at the desk, opened the hymn book. His voice
thrilled to the very finger ends of Brother Wade, as, in a distinct
and impressive manner, he gave out the hymn beginning--
"Help us to help each other, Lord,
Each other's cross to bear;
Let each his friendly aid afford,
And feel a brother's care."
The congregation arose after the stranger had read the entire hymn,
and he then repeated the two first lines for them to sing. Brother
Wade usually started the tune. He tried it this time, but went off
on a long metre tune. Discovering his mistake at the second word, he
balked, and tried it again, but now he stumbled on short metre. A
musical brother here came to his aid, and let off with an air that
suited the measure in which the hymn was written. After the singing,
the congregation kneeled, and the minister, for no one now doubted
his real character, addressed the Throne of Grace with much fervor
and eloquence. The reading of a chapter from the Bible succeeded to
these exercises. Then there was a deep pause throughout the room in
anticipation of the text, which the preacher prepared to announce.
Brother Wade looked pale, and his hands and knees trembled;--Sister
Wade's face was like crimson, and her heart was beating so loud that
she wondered whether the sound was not heard by the sister who sat
beside her. There was a breathless silence. The dropping of a pin
might almost have been heard. Then the fine, emphatic tones of the
preacher filled the crowded room.
"_A new commandment I give unto you, that you love one another_."
Brother Wade had bent to listen, but he now sank back in his seat.
This was the ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT!
The sermon was deeply searching, yet affectionate and impressive.
The preacher uttered nothing that could in the least wound, the
brother and sister of whose hospitality he had partaken, but he said
much that smote upon their hearts, and made them painfully conscious
that they had not shown as much kindness to the stranger as he had
been entitled to receive on the broad principles of humanity. But
they suffered most from mortification of feeling. To think that they
should have treated the Presiding Elder of the District after such a
fashion, was deeply humiliating; and the idea of the whole affair
getting abroad, interfered sadly with their devotional feelings
throughout the whole period of the service.
At last the sermon was over, the ordinance administered, and the
benediction pronounced. Brother Wade did not know what it was best
for him now to-do. He never was more at a loss in his life. Mr.
N--descended from the pulpit, but he did not step forward to meet
him. How could he do that? Others gathered around and shook hands
with him, but he still lingered and held back.
"Where is Brother Wade?" he at length heard asked. It was in the
voice of the minister.
"Here he is," said two or three, opening the way to where the farmer
stood.
The preacher advanced, and extending his hand, said--
"How do you do, Brother Wade? I am glad to see you. And where is
Sister Wade?"
Sister Wade was brought forward, and the preacher shook hands with
them heartily, while his face was lit up with smiles.
"I believe I am to find my home with you?" he said, as if that were
a matter understood and settled.
Before the still embarrassed brother and sister could reply, some
one asked--
"How came you to be detained so late? You were expected last night.
And where is Brother R--?"
"Brother R--is sick," replied Mr. N--, "and so I had to come
alone. Five miles from this my horse gave out, and I had to come the
rest of the way on foot. But I became so cold and weary that I found
it necessary to ask a farmer not far away from here to give me a
night's lodging, which he was kind enough to do. I thought I was
still three miles off, but it happened that I was much nearer my
journey's end than I had supposed."
This explanation was satisfactory to all parties, and in due time
the congregation dispersed; and the Presiding Elder went home with
Brother and Sister Wade. How the matter was settled between them, we
do not know. One thing is certain, however,--the story which we have
related did not get out for some years after the worthy brother and
sister had rested from their labors, and it was then related by Mr.
N--himself, who was rather (sic) excentric in his character, and,
like numbers of his ministerial brethren, fond of a good joke, and
given to relating good stories.
THE IRON WILL.
"FANNY! I've but one word more to say on the subject. If you marry
that fellow, I'll have nothing to do with you. I've said it; and you
may be assured that I'll adhere to my determination."
Thus spoke, with a frowning brow and a stern voice, the father of
Fanny Crawford, while the maiden sat with eyes bent upon the floor.
"He's a worthless, good-for-nothing fellow," resumed the father;
"And if you marry him, you wed a life of misery. Don't come back to
me, for I will disown you the day you take his name. I've said it,
and my decision is unalterable."
Still Fanny made no answer, but sat like a statue.
"Lay to heart what I have said, and make your election, girl." And
with these words, Mr. Crawford retired from the presence of his
daughter.
On that evening Fanny Crawford left her father's house, and was
secretly married to a young man named Logan, whom, spite of all his
faults, she tenderly loved.
When this fact became known to Mr. Crawford, he angrily repeated his
threat of utterly disowning his child; and he meant what he
said--for he was a man of stern purpose and unbending will. When
trusting to the love she believed him to bear for her, Fanny
ventured home, she was rudely repulsed, and told that she no longer
had a father. These cruel words fell upon her heart and ever after
rested there, an oppressive weight.
Logan was a young mechanic, with a good trade and the ability to
earn a comfortable living. But Mr. Crawford's objection to him was
well founded, and it would have been better for Fanny if she had
permitted it to influence her; for the young man was idle in his
habits, and Mr. Crawford too clearly saw that idleness would lead to
dissipation. The father had hoped that his threat to disown his
child would have deterred her from taking the step he so strongly
disapproved. He had, in fact, made this threat as a last effort to
save her from a union that would, inevitably, lead to unhappiness.
But having made it, his stubborn and offended pride caused him to
adhere with stern inflexibility to his word.
When Fanny went from under her father's roof, the old man was left
alone. The mother of his only child had been many years dead. For
her father's sake, as well as for her own, did Fanny wish to return.
She loved her parents with a most earnest affection, and thought of
him as sitting gloomy and companionless in that home so long made
light and cheerful by her voice and smile. Hours and hours would she
lie awake at night, thinking of her father, and weeping for the
estrangement of his heart from her. Still there was in her bosom an
ever living hope that he would relent. And to this she clung, though
he passed her in the street without looking at her, and steadily
denied her admission, when, in the hope of some change in his stern
purpose, she would go to his house and seek to gain an entrance.
As the father had predicted, Logan added, in the course of a year or
two, dissipation to idle habits and neglect of his wife to both.
They had gone to housekeeping in a small way, when first married,
and had lived comfortably enough for some time. But Logan did not
like work, and made every excuse he could find to take a holiday, or
be absent from the shop. The effect of this was, an insufficient
income. Debt came with its mortifying and (sic) harrassing
accompaniments, and furniture had to be sold to pay those who were
not disposed to wait. With two little children, Fanny was removed by
her husband into a cheap boarding-house, after their things were
taken and sold. The company into which she was here thrown, was far
from being agreeable; but this would have been no source of
unhappiness in itself. Cheerfully would she have breathed the
uncongenial atmosphere, if there had been nothing in the conduct of
her husband to awaken feelings of anxiety. But, alas! there was much
to create unhappiness here. Idle days were more frequent; and the
consequences of idle days more and more serious. From his work, he
would come home sober and cheerful; but after spending a day in idle
company, or in the woods gunning, a sport of which he was fond, he
would meet his wife with a sullen, dissatisfied aspect, and, too
often, in a state little above intoxication.
"I'm afraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well, friend Crawford,"
said a plain-spoken Quaker to the father of Mrs. Logan, after the
young man's habits began to show themselves too plainly in his
appearance.
Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips closely together.
"Has thee seen young Logan lately?"
"I don't know the young man," replied Mr. Crawford, with an
impatient motion of his head.
"Don't know thy own son-in-law! The husband of thy daughter!"
"I have no son-in-law! No daughter!" said Crawford, with stern
emphasis.
"Frances was the daughter of thy wedded wife, friend Crawford."
"But I have disowned her. I forewarned her of the consequences if
she married that young man. I told her that I would cast her off for
ever; and I have done it."
"But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong."
"I've said it, and I'll stick to it."
"But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford," repeated the Quaker.
"Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall the act. I gave
her fair warning; but she took her own course, and now she must
abide the consequences. When I say a thing, I mean it; I never eat
my words."
"Friend Crawford," said the Quaker, in a steady voice and with his
calm eyes fixed upon the face of the man he addressed. "Thee was
wrong to say what thee did. Thee had no right to cast off thy child.
I saw her to-day, passing slowly along the street. Her dress was
thin and faded; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face.
Ah! if thee could have seen the sadness of that countenance. Friend
Crawford! she is thy child still. Thee cannot disown her."
"I never change," replied the resolute father.
"She is the child of thy beloved wife, now in heaven, friend
Crawford."
"Good morning!" and Crawford turned and walked away.
"Rash words are bad enough," said the Quaker to himself, "but how
much worse is it to abide by rash words, after there has been time
for reflection and repentance!"
Crawford was troubled by what the Quaker said; but more troubled by
what he saw a few minutes afterwards, as he walked along the street,
in the person of his daughter's husband. He met the young man,
supported by two others--so much intoxicated that he could not stand
alone. And in this state he was going home to his wife--to Fanny!
The father clenched his hands, set his teeth firmly together,
muttered an imprecation upon the head of Logan, and quickened his
pace homeward. Try as he would, he could not shut out from his mind
the pale, faded countenance of his child, as described by the
Quaker, nor help feeling an inward shudder at the thought of what
she must suffer on meeting her husband in such a state.
"She has only herself to blame," he said, as he struggled with his
feelings. "I forewarned her; I gave her to understand clearly what
she had to expect. My word is passed. I have said it; and that ends
the matter. I am no childish trifler. What I say, I mean."
Logan had been from home all day, and, what was worse, had not been,
as his wife was well aware, at the shop for a week. The woman with
whom they were boarding, came into her room during the afternoon,
and, after some hesitation and embarrassment, said--
"I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Logan that I shall want you to give up
your room, after this week. You know I have had no money from you
for nearly a month, and, from the way your husband goes on, I see
little prospect of being paid any thing more. If I was able, for
your sake, I would not say a word. But I am not, Mrs. Logan, and
therefore must, in justice to myself and family, require you to get
another boarding-house."
Mrs. Logan answered only with tears. The woman tried to soften what
she had said, and then went away.
Not long after this, Logan came stumbling up the stairs, and opening
the door of his room, staggered in and threw himself heavily upon
the bed. Fanny looked at him a few moments, and then crouching down,
and covering her face with her hands, wept long and bitterly. She
felt crushed and powerless. Cast off by her father, wronged by her
husband, destitute and about to be thrust from the poor home into
which she had shrunk: faint and weary, it seemed as if hope were
gone forever. While she suffered thus, Logan lay in a drunken sleep.
Arousing herself at last, she removed his boots and coat, drew a
pillow under his head, and threw a coverlet over him. She then sat
down and wept again. The tea bell rung, but she did not go to the
table. Half an hour afterwards, the landlady came to the door and
kindly inquired if she would not have some food sent up to her room.
"Only a little bread and milk for Henry," was replied.
"Let me send you a cup of tea," urged the woman.
"No, thank you. I don't wish any thing to night."
The woman went away, feeling troubled. From her heart she pitied the
suffering young creature, and it had cost her a painful struggle to
do what she had done. But the pressing nature of her own
circumstances required her to be rigidly just. Notwithstanding Mrs.
Logan had declined having any thing, she sent her a cup of tea and
something to eat. But they remained untasted.
On the next morning Logan was sober, and his wife informed him of
the notice which their landlady had given. He was angry, and used
harsh language towards the woman. Fanny defended her, and had the
harsh language transferred to her own head.
The young man appeared as usual at the breakfast table, but Fanny
had no appetite for food, and did not go down. After breakfast,
Logan went to the shop, intending to go to work; but found his place
supplied by another journeyman, and himself thrown out of
employment, with but a single dollar in his pocket, a months
boarding due, and his family in need of almost every comfort. From
the shop he went to a tavern, took a glass of liquor, and sat down
to look over the newspapers, and think what he should do. There he
met an idle journeyman, who, like himself, had lost his situation. A
fellow feeling made them communicative and confidential.
"If I was only a single man," said Logan, "I wouldn't care, I could
easily shift for myself."
"Wife and children! Yes, there's the rub," returned the companion.
"A journeyman mechanic is a fool to get married."
"Then you and I are both fools," said Logan.
"No doubt of it. I came to that conclusion, in regard to myself,
long and long ago. Sick wife, hungry children, and four or five
backs to cover; no wonder a poor man's nose is ever on the
grindstone. For my part, I am sick of it. When I was a single man, I
could go where I pleased, and do what I pleased; and I always had
money in my pocket. Now I am tied down to one place, and grumbled at
eternally; and if you were to shake me from here to the Navy Yard,
you wouldn't get a sixpence out of me. The fact is, I'm sick of it."
"So am I. But what is to be done? I don't believe I can get work in
town."
"I know you can't. But there is plenty of work and good wages to be
had in Charleston or New Orleans."
Logan did not reply; but looked intently into his companion's face.
"I'm sure my wife would be a great deal better off if I were to
clear out and leave her. She has plenty of friends, and they'll not
see her want."
Logan still looked at his fellow journeyman.
"And your wife would be taken back under her father's roof, where
there is enough and to spare. Of course she would be happier than
she is now."
"No doubt of that. The old rascal has treated her shabbily enough.
But I am well satisfied that if I were out of the way he would
gladly receive her back again."
"Of this there can be no question. So, it is clear, that with our
insufficient incomes, our presence is a curse rather than a blessing
to our families."
Logan readily admitted this to be true. His companion then drew a
newspaper towards him, and after running his eyes over it for a few
moments, read:
"This day, at twelve o'clock, the copper fastened brig Emily, for
Charleston. For freight or passage, apply on board."
"There's a chance for us," he said, as he finished reading the
advertisement. "Let us go down and see if they won't let us work our
passage out."
Logan sat thoughtful a moment, and than said, as he arose to his
feet.
"Agreed. It'll be the best thing for us, as well as for our
families."
When the Emily sailed, at twelve o'clock, the two men were on board.
Days came and passed, until the heart of Mrs. Logan grew sick with
anxiety, fear and suspense. No word was received from her absent
husband. She went to his old employer, and learned that he had been
discharged; but she could find no one who had heard of him since
that time. Left thus alone, with two little children, and no
apparent means of support, Mrs. Logan, when she became at length
clearly satisfied that he for whom she had given up every thing, had
heartlessly abandoned her, felt as if there was no hope for her in
the world.
"Go to your father by all means," urged the woman with whom she was
still boarding. "Now that your husband has gone, he will receive
you."
"I cannot," was Fanny's reply.
"But what will you do?" asked the woman.
"Work for my children," she replied, arousing herself and speaking
with some resolution. "I have hands to work, and I am willing to
work."
"Much better go home to your father," said the woman.
"That is impossible. He has disowned me. Has ceased to love me or
care for me. I cannot go to him again; for I could not bear, as I am
now, another harsh repulse. No--no--I will work with my own hands.
God will help me to provide for my children."
In this spirit the almost heart-broken young woman for whom the
boarding-house keeper felt more than a common interest--an interest
that would not let her thrust her out from the only place she could
call her home--sought for work and was fortunate enough to obtain
sewing from two or three families, and was thus enabled to pay a
light board for herself and children. But incessant toil with her
needle, continued late at night and resumed early in the morning,
gradually undermined her health, which had become delicate, and
weariness and pain became the constant companions of her labor.
Sometimes in carrying her work home, the forsaken wife would have to
pass the old home of her girlhood, and twice she saw her father at
the window. But either she was changed so that he did not know his
child; or he would not bend from his stern resolution to disown her.
On these two occasions she was unable, on returning, to resume her
work. Her fingers could not hold or guide the needle; nor could she,
from the blinding tears that; filled her eyes have seen to sew, even
if her hands had lost the tremor that ran through every nerve of her
body.
A year had rolled wearily by since Logan went off, and still no word
had come from the absent husband. Labor beyond her bodily strength,
and trouble and grief that were too severe for her spirit to bear,
had done sad work upon the forsaken wife and disowned child. She was
but a shadow of her former self.
Mr. Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker, who had spoken so
plainly to him; but his words made some impression on him, though no
one would have supposed so, as there was no change in his conduct
towards his daughter. He had forewarned her of the consequences, if
she acted in opposition to his wishes. He had told her that he would
disown her forever. She had taken her own way, and, painful as it
was to him, he had to keep his word--his word that had ever been
inviolate. He might forgive her; he might pity her; but she must
remain a stranger. Such a direct and flagrant act of disobedience to
his wishes was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. Thus, in stubborn
pride, did his hard heart confirm itself in its cold and cruel
estrangement. Was he happy? No! Did he forget his child? No. He
thought of her and dreamed of her, day after day, and night after
night. But-he had said it, and he would stick to it! His pride was
unbending as iron.
Of the fact that the husband of Fanny had gone off and left her with
two children to provide for with the labor of her hands, he had been
made fully aware, but it did not bend him from his stern purpose.
"She is nothing to me," was his impatient reply to the one who
informed him of the fact. This was all that could be seen. But his
heart trembled at the intelligence. (sic) Neverthless, he stood
coldly aloof month after month, and even repulsed, angrily, the kind
landlady with whom Fanny boarded, who had attempted, all unknown to
the daughter, to awaken sympathy for her in her father's heart.
One day the old Friend, whose plain words had not pleased Mr.
Crawford, met that gentleman near his own door. The Quaker was
leading a little boy by the hand. Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidently
wished to pass on; but the Quaker paused, and said--
"I should like to have a few words with thee, friend Crawford."
"Well, say on."
"Thee is known as a benevolent man, friend Crawford. Thee never
refuses, it is said, to do a deed of charity."
"I always give something when I am sure the object is deserving."
"So I am aware. Do you see this little boy?"
Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the Quaker held by the hand.
As he did so, the child lifted to him a gentle face, with mild
earnest loving eyes.
"It is a sweet little fellow," said Mr. Crawford, reaching his hand
to the child. He spoke with some feeling, for there was a look about
the boy that went to his heart.
"He is, indeed, a sweet child--and the image of his poor, sick,
almost heart-broken mother, for whom I am trying to awaken an
interest. She has two children, and this one is the oldest. Her
husband is dead, or what may be as bad, perhaps worse, as far as she
is concerned, dead to her; and she does not seem to have a relative
in the world, at least none who thinks about or cares for her. In
trying to provide for her children, she has overtasked her delicate
frame, and made herself sick. Unless something is done for her, a
worse thing must follow. She must go to the Alms-house, and be
separated from her children. Look into the sweet, innocent face of
this dear child, and let your heart say whether he ought to be taken
from his mother. If she have a woman's feelings, must she not love
this child tenderly; and can any one supply to him his mother's
place?"
"I will do something for her, certainly," Mr. Crawford said.
"I wish thee would go with me to see her."
"There is no use in that. My seeing her can do no good. Get all you
can for her, and then come to me. I will help in the good work
cheerfully," replied Mr. Crawford.
"That is thy dwelling, I believe," said the Quaker, looking around
at a house adjoining the one before which they stood.
"Yes, that is my house," returned Crawford.
"Will thee take this little boy in with thee, and keep him for a few
minutes, while I go to see a friend some squares off?"
"Oh, certainly. Come with me, dear!" And Mr. Crawford held out his
hand to the child, who took it without hesitation.
"I will see thee in a little while," said the Quaker, as he turned
away.
The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed, was about four
years old. He had a more than usually attractive face; and an
earnest look out of his mild eyes, that made every one who saw him
his friend.
"What is your name, my dear?" asked Mr. Crawford, as he sat down in
his parlor, and took the little fellow upon his knee.
"Henry," replied the child. He spoke with distinctness; and, as he
spoke, there was a sweet expression of the lips and eyes, that was
particularly winning.
"It is Henry, is it?"
"Yes, sir,"
"What else besides Henry?"
The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes upon a picture that
hung over the mantle, and was looking at it intently. The eyes of
Mr. Crawford followed those of the child, that rested, he found, on
the portrait of his daughter.
"What else besides, Henry?" he repeated.
"Henry Logan," replied the child, looking for a moment into the face
of Mr. Crawford, and then turning to gaze at the picture on the
wall. Every nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will.
The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky could not have startled and
surprised him more. He saw in the face of the child, the moment be
looked at him, something strangely familiar and attractive. What it
was, he did not, until this instant, comprehend. But it was no
longer a mystery.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued voice, after he had
recovered, to some extent, his feelings.
The child looked again into his face, but longer and more earnestly.
Then, without answering, he turned and looked at the portrait on the
wall.
"Do you know who I am, dear?" repeated Mr. Crawford.
"No, sir," replied the child; and then again turned to gaze upon the
picture.
"Who is that?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the object that so fixed
the little boy's attention.
"My mother." And as he said these words, he laid his head down upon
the bosom of his unknown relative, and shrunk close to him, as if
half afraid because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind, hung
around the picture on the wall.
Moved by an impulse that he could not restrain, Mr. Crawford drew
his arms around the child and hugged him to his bosom. Pride gave
way; the iron will was bent; the sternly uttered vow was forgotten.
There is power for good in the presence of a little child. Its
sphere of innocence subdues and renders impotent the evil spirits
that rule in the hearts of selfish men. It was so in this case. Mr.
Crawford might have withstood the moving appeal of even his
daughter's presence, changed by grief, labor, and suffering, as she
was. But his anger, upon which he had suffered the sun to go down,
fled before her artless, confiding, innocent child. He thought not
of Fanny--as the wilful woman, acting from the dictate of her own
passions or feelings; but as a little child, lying upon his
bosom--as a little child, singing and dancing around him--as a
little child, with, to him, the face of a cherub; and the sainted
mother of that innocent one by her side.
When the Friend came for the little boy; Mr. Crawford said to him,
in a low voice--made low to hide his emotion--
"I will keep the child."
"From its mother?"
"No. Bring the mother, and the other child. I have room for them
all."
A sunny smile passed over the benevolent countenance of the Friend
as he hastily left the room.
Mrs. Logan, worn down by exhausting labor, had at last been forced
to give up. When she did give up, every long strained nerve of mind
and body instantly relaxed; and she became almost as weak and
helpless as an infant. While in this state, she was accidentally
discovered by the kind-hearted old Friend, who, without her being
aware of what he was going to do, made his successful attack upon
her father's feelings. He trusted to nature and a good cause, and
did not trust in vain.
"Come, Mrs. Logan," said the kind woman, with whom Fariny was still
boarding, an hour or so after little Henry had been dressed up to
take a walk--where, (sic) the the mother did not know or
think,--"the good Friend, who was here this morning, says you must
ride out. He has brought a carriage for you, It will do you good, I
know. He is very kind. Come, get yourself ready."
Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed.
"I do not feel able to get up," she replied. "I do not wish to ride
out."
"Oh, yes, you must go. The pure, fresh air, and the change, will do
you more good than medicine. Come, Mrs. Logan; I will dress little
Julia for you. She needs the change as much as you do."
"Where is Henry?" asked the mother.
"He has not returned yet. But, come! The carriage is waiting at the
door."
"Won't you go with me?"
"I would with pleasure--but I cannot leave home. I have so much to
do."
After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made the effort to
get herself ready to go out. She was so weak, that she tottered
about the floor like one intoxicated. But the woman with whom she
lived, assisted and encouraged her, until she was at length ready to
go. Then the Quaker came up to her room, and with the tenderness and
care of a father, supported her down stairs, and when she had taken
her place in the vehicle, entered, with her youngest child in his
arms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he did so, kind and
encouraging words.
The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and then stopped.
Scarcely had the motion ceased, when the door was suddenly opened,
and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter.
"My poor child!" he said, in a tender, broken voice, as Fanny,
overcome by his unexpected appearance, sunk forward into his arms.
When the suffering young creature opened her eyes again, she was
upon her own bed, in her own room, in her old home. Her father sat
by her side, and held one of her hands tightly. There were tears in
his eyes, and he tried to speak; but, though his lips moved, there
came from them no articulate sound.
"Do you forgive me, father? Do you love me, father?" said Fanny, in
a tremulous whisper, half rising from her pillow, and looking
eagerly, almost agonizingly, into her father's face.
"I have nothing to forgive," murmured the father, as he drew his
daughter towards him, so that her head could lie against his bosom.
"But do you love me, father? Do you love me as of old?" said the
daughter.
He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears fell from his eyes
and lay warm and glistening upon her face.
"As of old," he murmured, laying his cheek down upon that of his
child, and clasping her more tightly in his arms. The long pent up
waters of affection were rushing over his soul and obliterating the
marks of pride, anger, and the iron will that sustained them in
their cruel dominion. He was no longer a strong man, stern and rigid
in his purpose; but a child, with a loving and tender heart.
There was light again in his dwelling; not the bright light of other
times; for now the rays were mellowed. But it was light. And there
was music again; not so joyful; but it was music, and its spell over
his heart was deeper and its influence more elevating.
The man with the iron will and stern purpose was subdued, and the
power that subdued him, was the presence of a little child.
A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.
A HOUSEHOLD SKETCH.
FROM some cause, real or imaginary, I felt low spirited. There was a
cloud upon my feelings, and I could not smile as usual, nor speak in
a tone of cheerfulness. As a natural result, the light of my
countenance being gone, all things around me were in shadow. My
husband was sober, and had little to say; the children would look
strangely at me when I answered, their questions, or spoke to them
for any purpose, and my domestics moved about in a quiet manner, and
when they addressed me, did so in a tone more subdued than usual.
This re-action upon my state, only made darker the clouds that
veiled my spirits. I was conscious of this, and was conscious that
the original cause of my depression was entirely inadequate, in
itself, to produce the result which had followed. Under this
feeling, I made an effort to rally myself, but in vain; and sank
lower from the very struggle to rise above the gloom that
overshadowed me.
When my husband came home at dinner time, I tried to meet him with a
smile; but I felt that the light upon my countenance was feeble, and
of brief duration. He looked at me earnestly, and, in his kind and
gentle way, inquired if I felt no better, affecting to believe that
my ailment was one of the body instead of the mind. But I scarcely
answered him, and I could see that he felt hurt. How much more
wretched did I become at this. Could I have then retired to my
chamber, and, alone, give my full heart vent in a passion of tears,
I might have obtained relief to my feelings. But, I could not do
this.
While I sat at the table, forcing a little food into my mouth for
appearance sake, my husband said--
"You remember the fine lad who has been for some time in our store?"
I nodded my head, but the question did not awaken in my mind the
slightest interest.
"He has not made his appearance for several days; and I learned this
morning, on sending to the house of his mother, that he was very
ill."
"Ah!" was my indifferent response. Had I spoken what was in my mind,
I would have said--"I'm sorry, but I can't help it." I did not, at
the moment, feel the smallest interest in the lad.
"Yes," added my husband, "and the person who called to let me know
about it, expressed his fears that Edward would not get up again."
"What ails him?" I inquired.
"I did not clearly understand. But he has fever of some kind. You
remember his mother very well?"
"Oh, yes. You know she has worked for me. Edward is her only child,
I believe."
"Yes. And his loss to her will be almost every thing."
"Is he so dangerous?" I inquired, a feeling of interest beginning to
stir in my heart.
"He is not expected to live."
"Poor woman! How distressed she must be? I wonder what her
circumstances are just at this time. She seemed very poor when she
worked for me."
"And she is very poor still, I doubt not. She has herself been sick,
and during the time it is more than probable, that Edward's wages
were all her income. I am afraid she has suffered, and that she has
not, now, the means of procuring for her sick boy things necessary
for his comfort. Could you not go around there this afternoon, and
see how they are?"
I shook my head instantly, at this proposition, for sympathy for
others was not yet strong enough to expel my selfish despondency of
mind.
"Then I must step around," replied my husband, "before I go back to
the store, although we are very busy today, and I am much wanted
there. It would not be right to neglect the lad and his mother under
present circumstances."
I felt rebuked at these words; and, with a forced effort, said--
"I will go."
"It will be much better for you to see them than for me," returned
my husband, "for you can understand their wants better, and minister
to them more effectually. If they need any comforts, I would like
you to see them supplied."
It still cost me an effort to get ready; but as I had promised that
I would do as my husband wished, the effort. had to be made. By the
time I was prepared to go out, I felt something better. The exertion
I was required to make, tended to disperse slightly the clouds that
hung over me, and, as they began gradually to move, my thoughts
turned, with an awakening interest, toward the object of my
husband's solicitude.
All was silent within the humble abode to which my errand led me. I
knocked lightly, and in a few moments the mother of Edward opened
the door. She looked pale and anxious.
"How is your son, Mrs. Ellis?" I inquired, as I stepped in.
"He is very low, ma'am," she replied.
"Not dangerous, I hope?"
"The fever has left him, but he is as weak as an infant. All his
strength is gone."
"But proper nourishment will restore him, if the disease is broken."
"So the doctor says. But I'm afraid it is too late. He seems to be
sinking every hour. Will you walk up and see him, ma'am?"
I followed Mrs. Ellis up stairs, and into the chamber where the sick
boy lay. I was not surprised at the fear she had expressed, when I
saw Edward's pale, sunken face, and hollow, almost expressionless
eyes. He scarcely noticed my entrance.
"Poor boy!" sighed his mother. "He has had a very sick spell." My
liveliest interest was at once awakened.
"He has been sick indeed!" I replied, as I laid my hand upon his
white forehead. I found that his skin was, cold and damp. The fever
had nearly burned out the vital energies of his system. "Do you give
him much nourishment?"
"He takes a little barley water."
"Has not the doctor ordered wine?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Mr. Ellis, but she spoke with an air of
hesitation. "He says a spoonful of good wine, three or four times a
day, would be very good for him."
"And you have not given him any?"
"No ma'am,"
"We have some very pure wine, that we always keep for sickness. If
you will step over to our house, and tell Alice to give you a bottle
of it, I will stay with Edward until you return."
How brightly glowed that woman's face, as my words fell upon her
ears!
"Oh, ma'am you are very kind!" said she. "But it will be asking too
much of you to stay here!"
"You did'nt ask it, Mrs. Ellis," I smilingly replied. "I have
offered to stay; so do you go for the wine as quickly as you can,
for Edward needs it very much."
I was not required to say more. In a few minutes I was alone with
the sick boy, who lay almost as still as if death were resting upon
his half closed eye-lids. To some extent, in the half hour I
remained thus in that hushed chamber, did I realize the condition
and feelings of the poor mother whose only son lay gasping at the
very door of death, and all my sympathies were, in consequence,
awakened.
As soon as Mrs. Ellis returned with the wine, about a tea spoonful
of it was diluted, and the glass containing it placed to the sick
lad's lips. The moment its flavor touched his palate, a thrill
seemed to pass through his frame, and he swallowed eagerly.
"It does him good!" said I, speaking warmly, and from an impulse of
pleasure that made my heart glow.
We sat, and looked with silent interest upon the boy's face, and we
did not look in vain, for something like warmth came upon his wan
cheeks, and when I placed my hand again upon his forehead, the
coldness and dampness was gone. The wine had quickened his languid
pulses. I staid an hour longer, and then another spoonful of the
generous wine was given. Its effect was as marked as at first. I
then withdrew from the humble home of the widow and her only child,
promising to see them again in the morning.
When I regained the street and my thoughts, for a moment, reverted
to myself, how did I find all changed. The clouds had been
dispersed--the heavy hand raised from my bosom, I walked with a
freer step. Sympathy for others, and active efforts to do others
good, had expelled the evil spirits from my heart; and now serene
peace had there again her quiet habitation. There was light in every
part of my dwelling when I re-entered it, and I sung cheerfully, as
I prepared, with my own hands, a basket of provisions for the poor
widow.
When my husband returned in the evening, he found me at work,
cheerfully, in my family, and all bright and smiling again. The
effort to do good to others had driven away the darkness from my
spirit, and the sunshine was again upon my countenance, and
reflected from every member of my household.--_Lady's Wreath._
THREE HUNDRED A YEAR.
THE CALL.
"HOW much salary do they offer?" asked Mrs. Carroll of her husband,
who was sitting near her with a letter in his hand. He had just
communicated the fact that a Parish was tendered him in the Village
of Y--, distant a little over a hundred and fifty miles.
"The money is your first thought, Edith," said Mr. Carroll, half
chidingly, yet with an affectionate smile.
This remark caused a slight flush to pass over the face of Mrs.
Carroll. She replied, glancing, as she did so, towards a bed on
which lay three children.
"Is it wrong to think of the little ones whom God has given to us?"
"Oh, no! But we must believe that God who calls us to labor in his
vineyard, will feed both us and our children."
"How are we to know that HE calls us, Edward?" inquired Mrs.
Carroll.
"I hold the evidence in my hand. This letter from the vestry of
Y--Parish contains the call."
"It may be only the call of man."
"Edith!--Edith!--Your faith is weak; weak almost as the expiring
flame."
"What do they say in that letter? Will you read it to me."
"Oh, yes." And Mr. Carroll read--
"REV. AND DEAR SIR:--Our Parish has been for some months without a
minister. On the recommendation of Bishop--, we have been led to
make you an offer of the vacant place. The members of the church,
generally, are in moderate circumstances, and we cannot, therefore,
offer anything more than a moderate living. There is a neat little
parsonage, to which is attached a small garden, for the use of the
minister. The salary is three hundred dollars. You will find the
people kind and intelligent, and likewise prepossessed in your
favor. The Bishop has spoken of you warmly. We should like to hear
from you as early as convenient.
"Very affectionately, &c. &c."
"Three hundred dollars!" said Mrs. Carroll in a disappointed tone.
"And the parsonage," added Mr. Carroll, quickly.
"Equivalent to sixty or seventy more."
"Equivalent to a hundred dollars more, at least."
"We are doing much better here, Edward."
"True! But are we to look to worldly advantage alone?"
"We have a duty to discharge to our children, which, it seems to me,
comes before all other duties."
"God will take care of these tender lambs, Edith, do not fear. He
has called me to preach his everlasting Gospel, and I have heard and
answered. Now He points to the field of labor, and shall I hold back
because the wages seem small? I have not so learned my duty. Though
lions stood in the way, I would walk in it with a fearless heart. Be
not afraid. The salvation of souls is a precious work, and they who
are called to the labor will not lack for bread."
"But Edward," said the wife, in a serious voice, "will it be right
for us to enter any path of life blindfold, as it were? God has
given us reason for a guide; and should we not be governed by its
plain dictate?"
"We must walk by faith, Edith, and not by sight," replied Mr.
Carroll, in a tone that indicated some small measure of impatience.
"A true faith, dear husband!" said Mrs. Carroll tenderly, while a
slight suffusion appeared about her eyes.
"A true faith is ever enlightened and guided by reason. When reason
plainly points the way, faith bids us walk on with unfaltering
steps."
"And does not reason now point the way?" asked Mr. Carroll."
"I think not. From our school we receive nearly seven hundred
dollars; and we have not found that sum too large for our support. I
know that I work very hard, and that I find it as much as I can do
to keep all things comfortable."
"But remember that we have rent to pay."
"I know. Still a little over five hundred dollars remain. And the
present offer is only three hundred. Edward, we cannot live upon
this sum. Think of our three children. And my health, you know, is
not good. I am not so strong as I was, and cannot go through as
much."
The wife's voice trembled.
"Poor, weak doubter!" said Mr. Carroll, in a tender, yet reproving
voice. "Does not He who calls us to this labor know our wants? And
is not He able to supply them? Have you forgotten that the earth is
the Lord's and the fullness thereof? Whose are the cattle upon a
thousand hills? Did not God feed Elijah by ravens? Did the widow's
oil fail? Be not doubtful but believing, Edith! And what if we do
have to meet a few hardships, and endure many privations? Are these
to be counted against the salvation of even one precious soul? The
harvest is great, hut the laborers are few."
Mrs. Carroll knew her husband well enough to be assured that if he
believed it to be his duty to accept a call from Lapland or the
Indian Ocean, he would go. Yet, so strongly did both reason and
feeling oppose the contemplated change, that she could not help
speaking out what was in her mind.
"The day of miracles is past," she replied.
"We must not expect God to send us bread from heaven if we go into a
wilderness, nor water from the rock, if we wander away to some
barren desert. This Parish of Y--cannot afford living to any but a
single man, and, therefore, it seems to me that none but a single
man should accept their call. Wait longer, Edward. We have every
comfort for our children, and you are engaged in a highly useful
employment. When the right field for ministerial labor offers, God
will call you in a manner so clear that you need not feel a doubt on
the subject."
"I feel no doubt now," said Mr. Carroll. "I recognise the voice of
my Master, and must obey. And I will obey without fear. Our bread
will be given and our water sure. Ah! Edith. If you could only see
with me, eye to eye. If you could only take up your cross hopefully,
and walk I by my side, how light would seem all the burden I have to
bear?"
Mrs. Carroll felt the words of her husband, as a rebuke. This
silenced all opposition.
"I know that I am weak and fearful," she murmured, leaning her head
upon her husband, and concealing her face. "But I will try to have
courage. If you feel it to be your duty to accept this call, I will
go with you; and, come what may, will not vex your ears by a
complaining word. It was only for our little ones that I felt
troubled."
"The Lord will provide, Edith. He never sends any one upon a journey
at his own cost. Fear not: we have the God of harvest on our side."
The will of Mr. Carroll decided in this, as in almost every thing
else. He saw reason to accept the call, and did not therefore,
perceive any force in his wife's objections.
The school, from which a comfortable living had been obtained, was
given up; an old home and old friends abandoned. Prompt as Mr.
Carroll had been to accept the call to Y--, the process of
breaking up did not take place without some natural feelings coming
in to disturb him. How he was to support his wife and children on
three hundred dollars, did not exactly appear. It had cost him,
annually, the sum of five hundred, exclusive of rent; and no one
could affirm that he had lived extravagantly. But he dismissed such
unpleasant thoughts by saying, mentally--
"Away with these sinful doubts! I will not be faithless, but
believing."
As for Mrs. Carroll, who felt, in view of the coming trials and
labor, that she had but little strength; the parting from the old
place where she had known so many happy hours, gave her deeper pain
than she had ever experienced. Strive as she would, she could not
keep up her spirits. She could not feel any assurance for the
future,--could not put her entire trust in Heaven. To her the
hopeful spirit of her husband seemed a blind confidence, and not a
rational faith. But, even while she felt thus, she condemned herself
for the feeling; and strove--with how little effect!--to walk
sustainingly by the side of her husband.
THE CHANGE.
Six months have elapsed since Mr Carroll accepted the call to Y--.
He has preached faithfully and labored diligently. That was his
part. And he has received, quarterly, on the day it became due, his
salary. That was according to the contract on the other side. His
conscience is clear on the score of duty; and his parishioners are
quite as well satisfied that they have done all that is required of
them. They offered him three hundred a year and the parsonage. He
accepted the offer; and, by that act, declared the living to be
adequate to his wants. If he was satisfied they were.
"I don't know how he gets along on three hundred dollars," some one,
more thoughtful about such matters, would occasionally say. "It
costs me double that sum, and my family is no larger than his."
"They get a great many presents," would, in all probability, be
replied to this. "Mr. A--, I know, sent them a load of wood some
time ago; a Mr. B--told me that he had sent them a quarter of lamb
and a bushel of apples. And I have, two or three times, furnished
one little matter and another. I'm sure what is given to them will
amount to half as much as Mr. Carroll's salary."
"This makes a difference, of course," is the satisfied answer. And
yet, all told, the presents received by the whole family, in useful
articles, has not reached the value of twenty-five dollars during
six months. And this has been more than abstracted from them by the
kind ladies of the parish, who must needs visit and take tea with
the minister as often as convenient.
Six months had passed since the Rev. Mr. Carroll removed to Y--.
It was mid-winter; and a stormy day closed in with as stormy a
night. The rays which came through the minister's little
study-window grew faint in the pervading shadows, and he could no
longer see with sufficient clearness to continue writing. So he went
down stairs to the room in which were his wife and children. The
oldest child was a daughter, six years of age, named Edith from her
mother. Edward, between three and four years old, and Aggy the baby,
made up the number of Mr. Carroll's household treasures. They were
all just of an age to require their mother's attention in every
thing. As her husband entered the room, Mrs. Carroll said--
"I'm glad you've come down, dear. I can't get Aggy out of my arms a
minute. It's nearly supper time, and I havn't been able even to put
the kettle on the fire. She's very fretful."
Mr. Carroll took the baby. His wife threw a shawl over her head, and
taking an empty bucket from the dresser, was passing to the door,
when her husband said--
"Stop, stop, Edith! You musn't go for water in this storm. Here,
take the baby."
"I can go well enough," replied Mrs. Carroll, and before her husband
could prevent her, she was out in the blustering air, with the
snowflakes driving in her face.
"Oh, Edith! Edith! Why will you do so?" said her husband, as soon as
she came back.
"It's as easy for me to go as for you," she replied.
"No it isn't, Edith. I am strong to what you are. If you expose
yourself in this way, it will be the death of you."
Mrs. Carroll shook the snow from her shawl and dress, and brushed it
from her shoes, saying as she did so--
"Oh no! a little matter like this won't hurt me."
She then filled the tea-kettle and placed it over the fire. After
which she set out the table, and busied herself in getting ready
their evening meal. Meanwhile, Mr. Carroll walked the floor with
Aggy in his arms, both looking and feeling serious; while the two
older children amused themselves with a picture book.
As the reader has probably anticipated, the "living" (?) at
Y--proved altogether inadequate to the wants of Mr. Carroll's
family; and faith, confidence, and an abstract trust in Providence
by no means sufficed for its increase.
At first, Mrs. Carroll had a servant girl to help her in her
household duties, as usual. But she soon found that this would not
do. A dollar and a quarter a week, and the cost of boarding the
girl, took just about one-third of their entire income. So, after
the first three months, "help" was dispensed with. The washing had
to be put out; which cost half a dollar, weekly. To get some one in
the house to iron, would cost as much more. So Mrs. Carroll took
upon herself the task of ironing all the clothes, in addition to the
entire work of the house and care of her three children.
For three months this hard labor was performed; but not without a
visible effect. The face of Mrs. Carroll grew thinner; her step lost
its lightness; and her voice its cheerful tone. All this her husband
saw, and saw with intense pain. But, there was no remedy. His income
was but three hundred dollars a year; and out of that small sum it
was impossible to pay one hundred for the wages and board of a girl,
and have enough left for the plainest food and clothing. There was,
therefore, no alternative. All that it was in his power to do, was
done by Mr. Carroll to lighten the heavy burdens under which his
wife was sinking; but it was only a little, in reality, that he
could do; and he was doomed to see her daily wasting away, and her
strength departing from her.
At the time we have introduced them, Mrs. Carroll had begun to show
some symptoms of failing health, that alarmed her husband seriously.
She had taken cold, which was followed by a dry, fatiguing cough,
and a more than usual prostration of strength. On coming in with her
bucket of water from the well, as just mentioned, she did not take
off her shoes, and brush away the snow that had been pressed in
around the tops against her stockings, but suffered it to lie there
and melt, thus wetting her feet. It was nearly an hour from the time
Mr. Carroll came down from his room, before supper was ready. Aggy
was, by this time, asleep; so that the mother could pour out the tea
without having, as was usually the case, to hold the baby in her
arms.
"Ain't you going to eat anything?" asked Mr. Carroll, seeing that
his wife, whose face looked flushed, only sipped a little tea.
"I don't feel any appetite," replied Mrs. Carroll.
"But you'd better try to eat something, dear."
Just then there was a knock at the door. On opening it, Mr. Carroll
found a messenger with a request for him to go and see a parishioner
who was ill.
"You can't go away there in this storm," said his wife, as soon as
the messenger had retired.
"It's full a mile off."
"I must go, Edith," replied the minister. "If the distance were many
miles instead of one, it would be all the same. Duty calls."
And out into the driving storm the minister went, and toiled on his
lonely way through the deep snow to reach the bedside of a suffering
fellow man, who sought spiritual consolation in the hour of
sickness, from one whose temporal wants he had, while in health,
shown but little inclination to supply. That consolation offered, he
turned his face homeward again, and again breasted the unabated
storm. He found his wife in bed--something unusual for her at ten
o'clock--and, on laying his hand upon her face, discovered that she
was in a high fever. In alarm, he went for the doctor, who declined
going out, but sent medicine, and promised to come over in the
morning.
In the morning Mrs. Carroll was much worse, and unable to rise. To
dress the children and get breakfast, Mr. Carroll found to be tasks
of no very easy performance for him; and as soon as they were
completed, he called in a neighbor to stay with his wife while he
went in search of some one to come and take her place in the family
until she was able to go about again as usual.
That time, however, did not soon come. Weeks passed before she could
even sit up, and then she was so susceptible of cold, that even the
slightest draft of air into the room affected her; and so weak,
that, in attempting to mend a garment for one of her children, the
exertion caused her to faint away.
When Mrs. Carroll was taken sick, they had only fifteen dollars of
their quarter's salary left. It was but two weeks since they had
received it, yet nearly all was gone, for twenty-five dollars,
borrowed to meet expenses during the last month of the quarter, had
to be paid according to promise: shoes for nearly every member of
the family had to be purchased, besides warmer clothing for
themselves and children; and several little bills unavoidably
contracted, had to be settled. The extra expense of sickness, added
to the regular demand, soon melted away the trifling balance, and
Mr. Carroll found himself, with his wife still unable to leave her
room--in fact, scarcely able to sit up--penniless and almost
hopeless.--His faith had grown weak--his confidence was gone--his
spirits were broken. Daily he prayed for strength to bear up; for a
higher trust in Providence; for light upon his dark pathway.--But no
strength came, no confidence was created, no light shone upon his
way. And for this we need not wonder. It was no day of miracles, as
his wife had forewarned him. He had, as too many do, hoped for
sustenance in a field of labor where reason could find no
well-grounded hope. He knew that he could not live on three hundred
a year; yet he had accepted the offer, in the vain hope that all
would come out well!
The last shilling left the hand of the unhappy minister, and at
least six weeks remained before another quarter's salary became due.
He could not let his family starve; so, after much thought, he
finally determined to call the vestry together, frankly state his
case, and tell his brethren that it was impossible for him to live
on the small sum they allowed.
A graver meeting of the vestry of Y--parish had not for a long
time taken place. As for an increase of salary, that was declared to
be out of the question entirely. They had never paid any one over
three hundred dollars, which, with the parsonage, had always been
considered a very liberal compensation. They were very sorry for Mr.
Carroll, and would advance him a quarter's salary. But all increase
was out of the question. They knew the people would not hear to it.
The meeting then broke up, and the official members of the church
walked gravely away, while Mr. Carroll went home, feeling so sad and
dispirited, that he almost wished that he could die.
The Parish of Y--was not rich; though six hundred dollars could
have been paid to a minister with as little inconvenience to the
members as three hundred. But the latter sum was considered ample;
and much surprise was manifested when it was found that the new
minister asked for an increase, even before the first year of his
engagement had expired.
The face of his wife had never looked so pale, her cheeks so thin,
nor her eyes so sunken, to the minister, as when he came home from
this mortifying and disheartening meeting of the vestry. One of
those present was the very person he had gone a mile to visit on the
night of the snow-storm; and he had more to say that hurt him than
any of the rest.
"Edith," said Mr. Carroll, taking the thin hand of his wife, as he
sat down by her and looked sadly into her face, "we must leave
here."
"Must we? Why?" she asked, without evincing very marked surprise.
"We cannot live on three hundred a year."
"Where will we go?"
"Heaven only knows! But we cannot remain here!"
And as the minister said this, he bowed his head until his face
rested upon the arm of his wife. He tried to hide his emotion, but
Edith knew that tears were upon the cheeks of her husband.
THE SEQUEL.
JUST one year has elapsed, since Mr. Carroll accepted the call from
Y--. It has been a year of trouble, ending in deep affliction.
When the health of Mrs. Carroll yielded under her too heavy burdens,
it did not come back again. Steadily she continued to sink, after
the first brief rallying of her system, until it became hopelessly
apparent that the time of her departure was near at hand. She was
too fragile a creature to be thrown into the position she occupied.
Inheriting a delicate constitution, and raised with even an unwise
tenderness, she was no more fitted to be a pastor's wife, with only
three hundred a year to live upon, than a summer flower is to take
the place of a hardy autumn plant. This her husband should have
known and taken into the account, before he decided to accept the
call from Y--.
When it was found that Mrs. Carroll, after partially recovering from
her first severe attack, began, gradually to sink; a strong interest
in her favor was awakened among the ladies of the congregation, and
they showed her many kind attentions. But all these attentions, and
all this kindness, did not touch the radical disability under which
she was suffering. They did not remove her too heavy weight of care
and labor. All the help in her family that she felt justified in
employing, was a girl between fourteen and fifteen years of age, and
this left so much for her to do in the care of her children, and in
necessary household duties that she suffered all the time from
extreme physical exhaustion.
In the just conviction of the error he had committed, and while he
felt the hopelessness of his condition, Mr. Carroll, as has been
seen, resolved to leave Y--immediately. This design he hinted to
one of the members of his church.
"You engaged with us for a year, did you not?" enquired the member.
That settled the question in the mind of the unhappy minister. He
said no more to any one on the subject of his income, or about
leaving the parish. But his mind was made up not to remain a single
day, after his contract had expired. If in debt at the time, as he
knew he must be, he would free himself from the incumbrances by
selling a part of his household furniture. Meantime his liveliest
fears were aroused for his wife, as symptom after symptom of a rapid
decline, showed themselves. That he did not preach as good sermons,
nor visit as freely among his parishioners during the last three
months of the time he remained at Y--, is no matter of surprise.
Some, more considerate than the rest, excused him; but others
complained, even to the minister himself. No matter. Mr. Carroll had
too much at home to fill his heart to leave room for a troubled
pulsation on this account. He was conscience-clear on the score of
obligation to his parishioners.
At last, and this before the year had come to its close, the
drooping wife and mother took to her bed, never again to leave it
until carried forth by the mourners. We will not pain the reader by
any details of the affecting scenes attendant upon the last few
weeks of her mortal life; nor take him to the bed-side of the dying
one, in the hour that she passed away. To state the fact that she
died, is enough--and painful enough.
For all this, it did not occur to the people of Y--that, in
anything they had been lacking. They had never given but three
hundred a year to a minister, and, as a matter of course, considered
the sum as much as a reasonable man could expect. As for keeping a
clergyman in luxury, and permitting him to get rich; they did not
think it consistent with the office he held, which required
self-denial and a renouncing of the world. As to how he could live
on so small a sum, that was a question rarely asked; and when
presented, was put to rest by some backhanded kind of an answer,
that left the matter as much in the dark as ever.
Notwithstanding the deep waters of affliction through which Mr.
Carroll was required to pass, his Sabbath duties were but once
omitted, and that on the day after he had looked for the last time
upon the face of his lost one. Four Sabbaths more he preached, and
then, in accordance with notice a short time previously given,
resigned his pastoral charge. There were many to urge him with great
earnestness not to leave them; but a year's experience enabled him
to see clearer than he did before, and to act with greater decision.
In the hope of retaining him, the vestry strained a point, and
offered to make the salary three hundred and fifty dollars. But much
to their surprise, the liberal offer was refused.
It happened that the Bishop of the Diocese came to visit Y--a week
before Mr. Carroll intended taking his departure with his motherless
children, for his old home, where a church had been offered him in
connexion with a school. To him, three or four prominent members of
the church complained that the minister was mercenary, and looked
more to the loaves and fishes than to the duty of saving souls.
"Mercenary!" said the Bishop, with a strong expression of surprise.
"Yes, mercenary," repeated his accusers.
"So far from it," said the Bishop, warmly, "he has paid more during
the year, for supporting the Gospel in Y--, than any five men in
the parish put together."
"Mr. Carroll has!"
"How much do you give?" addressing one.
"I pay ten dollars pew rent, and give ten extra, besides," was the
answer.
"And you," speaking to another.
"The same."
"And you?"
"Thirty dollars, in all."
"While," said the Bishop, speaking with increased warmth, "your
minister gave two hundred dollars."
This, of course, took them greatly by surprise, and they asked for
an explanation. "It is given in a few words," returned the Bishop.
"It cost him, though living in the most frugal manner, five hundred
dollars for the year. Of this, you paid three hundred, and he two
hundred dollars."
"I don't understand you, Bishop," said one.
"Plainly, then; he was in debt at the end of the year, two hundred
dollars, for articles necessary for the health and comfort of his
family, to pay which he has sold a large part of his furniture. He
was not working for himself, but for you, and, therefore, actually
paid two hundred dollars for the support of the Gospel in Y--,
while you paid but twenty or thirty dollars apiece. Under these
circumstances, my friends, be assured that the charge of being
mercenary, comes with an exceeding bad grace. Nor is this all that
he has sacrificed. An insufficient income threw upon his wife,
duties beyond her strength to bear; and she sunk under them. Had you
stepped forward in time, and lightened these duties by a simple act
of justice, she night still be living to bless her husband and
children!--Three hundred a year for a man with a wife and three
children, is not enough; and you know it, my brethren! Not one of
you could live on less than double the sum."
This rebuke came with a stunning force upon the ears of men who had
expected the Bishop to agree with them in their complaint, and had
its effect. On the day Mr. Carroll left the village, he received a
kind and sympathetic letter from the official members of the church
enclosing the sum of two hundred dollars. The first impulse of his
natural feelings was to return the enclosure, but reflection showed
him that such an act would be wrong; and so he retained it, after
such acknowledgments as he deemed the occasion required.
Back to his old home the minister went, but with feelings, how
different, alas! from those he had experienced on leaving for Y--.
The people among whom he had labored for a year, felt as if they had
amply paid him for all the service he had rendered; in fact had
overpaid him, as if money, doled out grudgingly, could compensate
for all he had sacrificed and suffered, in his effort to break for
them the Bread of Life.
Here is one of the phases of ministerial life, presented with little
ornament or attractiveness. There are many other phases, more
pleasant to look upon, and far more flattering to the good opinion
we are all inclined to entertain of ourselves. But it is not always
best to look upon the fairest side. The cold reality of things, it
is needful that we should sometimes see. The parish of Y--, does
not, by any means, stand alone. And Mr. Carroll is not, the only man
who has suffered wrong from the hands of those who called him to
minister in spiritual things, yet neglected duly to provide for the
natural and necessary wants of the body.
I'LL SEE ABOUT IT.
MR. EASY sat alone in his counting room, one afternoon, in a most
comfortable frame, both as regards mind and body. A profitable
speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of
great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required
for the repose of the latter. He was in that delicious, half asleep,
half awake condition, which, occurring after dinner, is so very
pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first possessed a charm for
his eye, had fallen, with the hand that held--it, upon his knee. His
head was gently reclined backwards against the top of a high,
leather cushioned chair; while his eyes, half opened, saw all things
around him but imperfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly
opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale,
thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. He
approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and soon stood
directly before him.
Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this intrusion, for so he felt it. He
knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better
circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her husband had,
while living, been his intimate friend, and he had promised him, at
his dying hour, to be the protector and adviser of his wife and
children. He had meant to do all he promised, but, not being very
fond of trouble, except where stimulated to activity by the hope of
gaining some good for himself, he had not been as thoughtful in
regard to Mrs. Mayberry as he ought to have been. She was a modest,
shrinking, sensitive woman, and had, notwithstanding her need of a
friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, or even sent to
request him to act for her in any thing, except once. Her husband
had left her poor. She knew little of the world. She had three quite
young children, and one, the oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy
been true to his pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her
dark path, and lightened her burdened heart of many a doubt and
fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass since the death
of her husband, without having once called upon her. This neglect
had not been intentional. His will was good but never active at the
present moment. "To-morrow," or "next week," or "very soon," he
would call upon Mrs. Mayberry; but to-morrow, or next week, or very
soon, had never yet come.
As for the widow, soon after her husband's death, she found that
poverty was to be added to affliction. A few hundred dollars made up
the sum of all that she received after the settlement of his
business, which had never been in a very prosperous condition. On
this, under the exercise of extreme frugality, she had been enabled
to live for nearly a year. Then the paucity of her little store made
it apparent to her mind that individual exertion was required
directed towards procuring the means of support for her little
family. Ignorant of the way in which this was to be done, and having
no one to advise her, nearly two months more passed before she could
determine what to do. By that time she had but a few dollars left,
and was in a state of great mental distress and uncertainty. She
then applied for work at some of the shops, and obtained common
sewing, but at prices that could not yield her any thing like a
support.
Hiram, her oldest son, had been kept at school up to this period.
But now she had to withdraw him. It was impossible any longer to pay
his tuition fees. He was an intelligent lad--active in mind, and
pure in his moral principles. But like his mother; sensitive, and
inclined to avoid observation. Like her, too, he had a proud
independence of feeling, that made him shrink from asking or
accepting a favor, putting himself under an obligation to any one.
He first became aware of his mother's true condition, when she took
him from school, and explained the reason for so doing. At once his
mind rose into the determination to do something to aid his mother.
He felt a glowing confidence, arising from the consciousness of
strength within. He felt that he had both the will and the power to
act, and to act efficiently.
"Don't be disheartened, mother," he said, with animation. "I can and
will do something. I can help you. You have worked for me a great
many years. Now I will work for you."
Where there is a will, there is a way. But it is often the case,
that the will lacks the kind of intelligence that enables it to find
the right way at once. So it proved in the case of Hiram Mayberry.
He had a strong enough will, but did not know how to bring it into
activity. Good, without its appropriate truth, is impotent. Of this
the poor lad soon became conscious. To the question of his mother--
"What can you do, child!" an answer came not so readily.
"Oh, I can do a great many things," was easily said; but, even in
saying so, a sense of inability followed the first thought of what
he should do, that the declaration awakened.
The will impels, and then the understanding seeks for the means of
affecting the purposes of the will. In the case of young Hiram,
thought followed affection. He pondered for many days over the means
by which he was to aid his mother. But, the more he thought, the
more conscious did he become, that, in the world, he was a weak boy.
That however strong might be his purpose, his means of action were
limited. His mother could aid him but little. She had but one
suggestion to make, and that was, that he should endeavor, to get a
situation in some store, or counting room. This he attempted to do.
Following her direction, he called upon Mr. Easy, who promised to
see about looking him up a situation. It happened, the day after,
that a neighbor spoke to him about a lad for his store--(Mr. Easy
had already forgotten his promise)--Hiram was recommended, and the
man called to see his mother.
"How much salary can you afford to give him?" asked Mrs. Mayberry,
after learning all about the situation, and feeling satisfied that
her son should accept of it.
"Salary, ma'am?" returned the storekeeper, in a tone of surprise.
"We never give a boy any salary for the first year. The knowledge
that is acquired of business is always considered a full
compensation. After the first year, if he likes us, and we like him,
we may give him seventy-five or a hundred dollars."
Poor Mrs. Mayberry's countenance fell immediately.
"I wouldn't think of his going out now, if it were not in the hope
of his earning something," she said in a disappointed voice.
"How much did you expect him to earn?" was asked by the storekeeper.
"I didn't know exactly what to expect. But I supposed that he might
earn four or five dollars a week."
"Five dollars a week is all we pay our porter, an able bodied,
industrious man," was returned. "If you wish your son to become
acquainted with mercantile business, you must not expect him to earn
much for three or four years. At a trade you may receive for him
barely a sufficiency to board and clothe him, but nothing more."
This declaration so dampened the feelings of the mother that she
could not reply for some moments. At length she said--
"If you will take my boy with the understanding, that, in case I am
not able to support him, or hear of a situation where a salary can
be obtained, you will let him leave your employment without hard
feelings, he shall go into your store at once."
To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went with him
according to agreement. A few weeks passed, and the lad, liking both
the business and his employer, his mother felt exceedingly anxious
for him to remain. But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her
little store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet been
able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar and a half a
week. This was not more than sufficient to buy the plainest food for
her little flock. It would not pay rent, nor get clothing. To meet
the former, recourse was had to the sale of her husband's small,
select library. Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably
decent, and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she
was able to keep Hiram in a suitable condition, to appear at the
store of his employer.
Thus matters went on for several months. Mrs. Mayberry working late
and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In
the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy,
that to rise required a strong effort, and even after she was up,
and attempted to resume her labors, her trembling frame almost
refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length, nature gave
way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head
throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain--her whole body ached, and her
skin burned with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat,
and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old,
into the house of a neighbor who had showed them some good will,
asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned
home at dinner time. This the neighbor readily consented to
do--promising, also, to call in frequently to see his mother.
At dinner time Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better
at night. For three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the
careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued.
After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician
said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This
injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do
so.
"I don't see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a neighbor who had
often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widows
statement of her unhappy condition. "You cannot maintain these
children, certainly. And I don't see how, in your present feeble
state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing
that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to
endeavor to get two of your children into some orphan asylum. The
youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support
himself at something or other."
The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She
half sobbed, caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a
strange, bewildered stare in the face.
"O, no! I cannot do that! I cannot be separated from my dear little
children. Who will care for them like a mother?"
"It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler.
You cannot keep them with you--that is certain. You have not the
strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum,
with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other
circumstances."
But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head.
"No--no--no," she replied--"I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot
be separated from them. I shall soon be able to work again--better
able than before."
The neighbor who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When
Hiram returned at dinner time, his face had in it a more animated
expression than usual.
"Mother," he said, as soon as he came in, "I heard today that a boy
was wanted at the Gazette office, who could write a good hand. The
wages were to be four dollars a week."
"You did!" Mrs. Mayberry said, quickly, her weak frame trembling,
although she struggled hard to be composed.
"Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the publisher, and could
get me the place, I am sure."
"Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure it, all will
be well, if not, your little brothers and sisters will have to be
separated, perhaps sent to an orphan asylum."
Mrs. Mayberry covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly
for some moments.
Hiram eat his frugal meal quickly, and returned to the store, where
he had to remain until his employer went home and dined. On his
return he asked liberty to be absent for half an hour, which was
granted. He then went direct to the counting room of Mr. Easy, and
disturbed him as has been seen. Approaching with a timid step, and a
flushed brow, he said in a confused and hurried manner--
"Mr Easy there is a lad wanted at the Gazette office."
"Well?" returned Mr. Easy in no very cordial tone.
"Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to Mr. G--for
me."
"Havn't you a place in a store?"
"Yes sir. But I don't get any wages. And at the Gazette office they
will pay four dollars a week."
"But the knowledge of business to be gained where you are, will be
worth a great deal more than four dollars a week."
"I know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and clothe me. I
must earn something."
"Oh, aye, that's it. Very well, I'll see about it for you."
"When shall I call, sir?" asked Hiram.
"When? Oh, almost any time. Say to-morrow or next day."
The lad departed, and Mr. Easy's head fell back upon the chair, the
impression which had been made upon his mind passing away almost as
quickly as writing upon water.
With anxious trembling hearts did Mrs. Mayberry and her son wait for
the afternoon of the succeeding day. On the success of Mr. Easy's
application, rested all their hopes. Neither she nor Hiram eat over
a few mouthfuls at dinner time. The latter hurried away, and
returned to the store, there to wait with trembling eagerness until
his employer should return from dinner, and he again be free to go
and see Mr. Easy.
To Mrs. Mayberry, the afternoon passed slowly. She had forgotten to
tell her son to return home immediately, if the application should
be successful. He did not come back, and she had, consequently, to
remain in a state of anxious suspense until dark. He came in at the
usual hour. His dejected countenance told of disappointment.
"Did you see Mr. Easy?" Mrs. Mayberry asked, in a low troubled
voice.
"Yes. But he hadn't been to the Gazette office. He said he had been
very busy. But that he would see about it soon."
Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after sitting silent and
pensive during the evening, retired early to bed. On the next day,
urged on by his anxious desire to get the situation of which he had
heard, Hiram again called at the counting room of Mr. Easy, his
heart trembling with hope and fear. There were two or three men
present. Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he
entered. His appearance had evidently annoyed the merchant. Had he
consulted his feelings, he would have retired at once. But that was
too much at stake. Gliding to a corner of the room, he stood, with
his hat in his hand, and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr.
Easy was disengaged. At length the gentlemen with whom he was
occupied went away, and Mr. Easy turned towards the boy. Hiram
looked up earnestly in his face.
"I have really been so much occupied my lad," the merchant said, in
a kind of apologetic tone, "as to have entirely forgotten my promise
to you. But I will see about it. Come in again, to-morrow."
Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh towards the door. The
keen disappointment expressed in the boy's face, and the touching
quietness of his manner, reached the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was
not a hard hearted man, but selfishly indifferent to others. He
could feel deeply enough if he would permit himself to do so. But of
this latter failing he was not often guilty.
"Stop a minute," he said. And then stood in a musing attitude for a
moment or two. "As you seem so anxious about this matter," he added,
"if you will wait here a little while, I will step down to see Mr.
G--at once."
The boy's face brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the effect of what
he said, and it made the task he was about entering upon
reluctantly, an easy one. The boy waited for nearly a quarter of an
hour, so eager to know the result that he could not compose himself
to sit down. The sound of Mr. Easy's step at the door at length made
his heart bound. The merchant entered. Hiram looked into his face.
One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly cherished hope to the
ground.
"I am sorry," Mr. Easy said, "but the place was filled this morning.
I was a little too late."
The boy was unable to control his feelings. The disappointment was
too great. Tears gushed from his eyes, as he turned away and left
the counting-room without speaking.
"I'm afraid I've done wrong," said Mr. Easy to himself, as he stood,
in a musing attitude, by his desk, about five minutes after Hiram
had left. "If I had seen about the situation when he first called
upon me, I might have secured it for him. But it's too late now."
After saying this the merchant placed his thumbs in the arm-holes of
his waistcoat, and commenced walking the floor of his counting room
backwards and forwards. He could not get out of his mind the image
of the boy as he turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts
of the friend's widow whom he had neglected. This state of mind
continued all the afternoon. Its natural effect was to cause him to
cast about in his mind for some way of getting employment for Hiram
that would yield immediate returns. But nothing presented itself.
"I wonder if I couldn't make room for him here?" he at length
said--"He looks like a bright boy. I know Mr.--is highly pleased
with him. He spoke of getting four dollars a week. That's a good
deal to give to a mere lad. But, I suppose I might make him worth
that to me. And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I
believe I cannot keep a clear conscience and any longer remain
indifferent to the welfare of my old friend's widow and children. I
must look after them a little more closely than I have heretofore
done."
This resolution relieved the mind of Mr. Easy a good deal.
When Hiram left the counting room of the merchant, his spirits were
crushed to the very earth. He found his way back, how he hardly
knew, to his place of business, and mechanically performed the tasks
allotted him, until evening.
Then he returned home, reluctant to meet his mother, and yet anxious
to relieve her state of suspense, even, if in doing so, he should
dash a last hope from her heart. When he came in Mrs. Mayberry
lifted her eyes to his, inquiringly; but dropped them instantly--she
needed no words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter
disappointment.
"You did not get the place?" she at length said, with forced
composure.
"No--It was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised to see about it.
But he didn't do so. When he went this afternoon, it was too late."
Hiram said this with a trembling voice and lips that quivered.
"Thy will be done!" murmured the widow, lifting her eyes upwards.
"If these tender ones are to be taken from their mother's fold, oh,
do thou temper for them the piercing blast, and be their shelter
amid the raging tempests."
A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. Mayberry. A
brief struggle with her feelings enabled her to overcome them in
time to receive a visitor with composure. It was the merchant.
"Mr. Easy!" she said in surprise.
"Mrs. Mayberry, how do you do!" There was some restraint and
embarrassment in his manner. He was conscious of having neglected
the widow of his friend, before he came. The humble condition in
which he found her, quickened that consciousness into a sting.
"I am sorry, madam," he said after he had become seated and made a
few inquiries, "that I did not get the place for your son. In fact,
I am to blame in the matter. But, I have been thinking since that he
would suit me exactly, and if you have no objections, I will take
him and pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year."
Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings were too much excited
by this sudden and unlooked for proposal, to allow her to speak for
some moments. Even then her assent was made with tears glistening on
her cheeks.
Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of Hiram from the
store where he had been engaged, to the counting room of Mr. Easy.
The salary he received was just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with
what she herself earned, to keep her little together, until Hiram,
who proved a valuable assistant in Mr. Easy's business, could
command a larger salary, and render her more important hid.
THE FIERY TRIAL.
"THE amount of that bill, if you please, sir."
The man thus unceremoniously addressed, lifted his eyes from the
ledger, over which he had been bending for the last six hours, with
scarcely the relaxation of a moment, and exhibited a pale, care-worn
countenance--and, though still young, a head over which were thickly
scattered the silver tokens of age. A sad smile played over his
intelligent features, a smile meant to shake the sternness of the
man who was troubling his peace, as he replied in a low, calm
voice--
"To-day, it will be impossible, sir."
"And how many times have you given me the same answer. I cannot
waste my time by calling day after day, for so paltry a sum."
A flush passed over the fine countenance of the man thus rudely
addressed. But he replied in the same low tone, which now slightly
trembled:
"I would not ask you to call, sir, if I had the money But what I
have not, I cannot give."
"And pray when _will_ you have the money?" The man paused for some
time, evidently calculating the future, and after a long-drawn sigh,
as if disappointed with the result, said:--
"It will be two or three months, before I can pay it and even then,
it will depend on a contingency."
"Two or three months?--a contingency? It must come quicker and surer
than that, sir."
"That is the best I can say."
"But not the best I can do, I hope.--Good-morning." After the
collector had gone, the man bent his head down, until his face
rested even upon the ponderous volume over which he had been poring
for hours. He thought, and thought, but thought brought no relief.
The most he could earn was ten dollars a week, and for his children,
two sweet babes, and for the comfort of a sick wife, he had to
expend the full sum of his wages. The debt for which he was now
troubled, was a rent-bill of forty dollars, held against him by a
man whose annual income was twenty thousand dollars. Finally, he
concluded to go and see Mr. Moneylove, and try to prevail upon him
to stop any proceedings that the collector might institute against
him. In the evening, he sought the dwelling of his rich creditor,
and after being ushered into his splendid parlour, waited with a
troubled heart for his appearance. Mr. Moneylove entered.
"How do you do, sir?"
"How do you do?" replied the debtor, in a low, troubled voice. The
manner of Mr. Moneylove changed, the moment he heard the peculiar
tone of his voice, although he did not know him. There was an
appealing language in its cadence that whispered a warning to his
ear, and he closed his heart on the instant.
"Well, sir," were his next words, "what is your will?"
"You hold a bill against me for rent."
"Well, sir, go to my agent."
"I have seen Mr.--."
"That will do, sir. He knows all about my business, and will arrange
to my entire satisfaction."
"But, sir, I cannot pay it now, and he threatens harsh measures."
"I have entire confidence in his judgment, sir, and am willing to
leave all such matters to his discretion."
"I am in trouble, sir, and in poverty beside, for the demands on me
are greater than I can meet."
"Your own fault, I suppose," retorted the landlord, with a sneer.
"That, any one might know, who took half a glance at you."
This remark caused the blood to mount suddenly to the face of the
man.
"Let me be judged by what I am, not by what I have been," was the
meek reply, after the troubled pause of a few moments. Then in a
more decided tone of voice, he said:--
"Will you not interfere?"
"Will I? _No!_ I never interfere with my agent. He gives me entire
satisfaction, and while he does so, I shall not interfere." And Mr.
Moneylove smiled with self-satisfaction at the idea of his careful
and thrifty agent, and his own worldly policy.
The petitioner slowly left the house--murmuring to himself:
"_Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors._" It was more than
an hour before he could compose his mind sufficiently to be able to
meet his wife with a countenance that was not too deeply shadowed
with care.
She was ill, and besides, under the pressure of many causes, was
suffering from a nervous lowness of spirits. Against this
depression, her husband saw that she was striving with all the
mental energy she possessed, but striving almost in vain. To know
that she even had cause for the exercise of such an internal power,
was, to him, painful in the extreme; and he was bitter in his
self-reproaches for being the cause of suffering to one he loved
with a pure and fervent love.
Turning, at last, resolutely towards his dwelling, and striving with
a strong effort to keep down the troubles that were sweeping in
rough waves over his spirit; it was not long before he set his foot
upon his own doorstone.
To give force to this scene, and to throw around what follows its
true interest, it will be necessary to go back and sketch some
things in the history of the individual here introduced.
His name was Theodore Wilmer. In earlier years, he was clerk in the
large mercantile house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co., in New York.
Being a young man of intelligence, good address, and good
principles, he was much esteemed, and valued by his employers, who
took some pains to introduce him into society. In this way he was
brought into contact with some of the first families in New York,
and, in this way, he became acquainted with Constance Jackson, the
daughter of a wealthy merchant. Constance was truly a lovely girl,
and one for whom Theodore soon began to entertain feelings akin to
love.
Mr. Jackson, (the father of Constance,) was the son of a man who had
begun life in New York, at the very bottom of fortune's wheel. He
was a native of Ireland, and came to this country very poor. For
some years, with his pack on his back, he gained a subsistence by
vending dry-goods, and unimportant trifles, through the counties and
small towns in the vicinity of New York. Gradually he laid up dollar
after dollar, until he was able to open a very small shop in Maiden
Lane, a kind of thread-and-needle store. Careful in his purchases,
and constant in his attendance on business, he soon began to find
his tens counting hundreds; and but few years rolled away, before
his hundreds began to grow into thousands. After a while he took a
larger store, and suddenly became known. and respected as "a
merchant." At the end of twenty years from the time he carried his
pack out of New York, he could write himself worth fifty thousand
dollars. Success continued to crown his efforts in business, and
when his children came on the stage of active life, they were raised
to consider themselves as far superior to mere mechanics, or those
who had to labour for their daily bread.
The father of Constance was the eldest son of old Mr. Jackson, and
inherited from him a large share of haughty pride. His wife was out
of a family with notions equally aristocratic. Constance was their
only child, and they had bestowed no little care in endeavouring to
make her the most accomplished young lady in New York. They loved
her tenderly, but pride divided with affection their interest in
her. She had already declined the hands of two young men of the
first families in the city, much to the displeasure of both her
parents, when she met Theodore Wilmer, who resided in the family of
Mr. Wykoff, partner in the house that employed the young man in the
capacity of clerk. In this family, Constance visited regularly, and
the intimacy which sprung up between the young couple, had a chance
of maturing into a more permanent affection, before Mr. or Mrs.
Jackson had the slightest suspicion of such an event. Indeed, the
first knowledge they had of the real state of affairs was obtained
through Wilmer himself, in the form of an application for the hand
of their daughter. It was made to Mr. Jackson, on whom it fell with
the unexpected suddenness of a flash from a clear sky in June.
"And pray, sir, who are you?" was his hasty and excited answer.
"Theodore Wilmer, clerk in the house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co."
"Are you really in earnest, young man?" said Mr. Jackson, in a
calmer voice, though his lips trembled with suppressed anger.
"Never more so in my life, sir."
"And does my daughter know of this application?"
"She does."
"And is it made by her consent?"
"Of course."
The calm, and "of course" manner of the young man was more than the
patience of Jackson could withstand. Hardly able to contain the
indignation that swelled within him, at the presumption of an
unknown clerk, thus to ask the hand of his daughter, he paused but a
moment, and then seizing Wilmer by the shoulder, and looking him
steadily in the face, while he almost foamed with anger, replied
thus to his last admission:--
"If that headstrong girl has dared to place her thoughts on you,
obscure underling! and dared, as you say, to consent to accept you,
I will cut her off this hour from fortune and affection. I will cast
her loose upon the world as unworthy. Go--go--and never presume to
come again into my presence!"
Opposition, denial, he had expected; but nothing like this. He had
hoped that when the parents saw a fixed resolution on the part of
Constance to accept none other, that gradually opposition would be
worn away. Such a termination he now saw to be hopeless. The father
did not seek an immediate interview with his child. Before meeting
her, he had found time to reflect upon the real position of affairs.
He was well enough taught in the theory, at least, of a woman's
affections. He had heard of instances where opposition in a love
affair had only added fuel to the flame; and one or two such cases
had fallen under his own eye. He, therefore, decided to make no
present show of opposition, and on no consideration to allow her to
know of the interview that had occurred between her lover and
himself. Mrs. Jackson, entering into her husband's view and
feelings, took upon herself the task of watching and silently
controlling all the movements of her daughter. Particular care was
taken to prevent her visiting the family of Mr Wykoff.
"Where are you going, love?" said her mother, to her the next day
after that of the interview, as Constance came out of her room,
dressed for a walk.
"I promised to walk with Laura Wykoff, ma, and am going to call for
her."
"I was just going to send for you to dress for a walk with me; I
want to make a call to-day on Madame Boyer. And this afternoon I am
to spend with Mrs. Claxton and her five daughters, and you must go
along, of course. So you will have to postpone your walk with Laura
today."
If it had only been the walk with Laura Wykoff, Constance would not
have hesitated a moment, but her heart almost ached with suspense to
know from Theodore the result of his interview with her father. He
had promised to leave a note for her with Laura, who was their
mutual confidante. The mother, of course, noticed an air of regret
at her disappointment, and ingeniously remarked--
"So you would rather walk with Miss Wykoff, than your mother?"
The tears started into the eyes of Constance, and twining her arms
around the neck of her mother, she murmured,
"No, no, dear mother! How could you think so?"
Hiding her anxious desire to know the result of that interview upon
which hung her fate, she passed with apparent cheerfulness through
the weary day; and late at night sought her pillow from which sleep
had fled. On the next morning, much to her distress of mind, she
learned that a visit of a few weeks to a relation in Albany had been
suddenly determined upon, and that in company with her mother she
had to set off in the first boat that day. Her suspicions were at
once roused as to the real cause for this hasty movement, and she
determined to write to Theodore immediately on her arrival at
Albany.
The beautiful scenery of the Hudson was unappreciated by one eye of
the many brilliant ones that looked out from the majestic boat,
that, in the language of Carlyle, "travelled on fire-wings," through
the looming highlands. The watchful mother strove hard to divert the
mind of her child, but in vain. Her heart was away from the present
reality; and no effort of her own could bring it back. It was night
when the boat arrived, and no chance offered for writing before
retiring to bed. It seemed, indeed, as if the mother, suspicious
that some communication would be made in this way, kept so about
Constance all the next day, that she had no chance of dropping
Theodore even a line to say where she was, and that she still
remembered him with affection. And the next day passed in the same
way; not an hour, not a moment could she get for privacy or
uninterrupted self-communion. At last she determined to write to
Laura Wykoff, to which, of course, her mother could make no
objection. But she dared not mention the name of Theodore, or allude
to her present restrained condition, except remotely, for fear that
her mother would ask to see the letter. This letter was given to a
servant to convey to the post-office, in the presence of her mother.
It never reached its destination. And the mother knew well the
reason why. In it, she asked an immediate answer. Day after day
passed, and no answer came. She wrote again, and with the same
success. Finally, she gained a few minutes to pen a line or two to
Theodore, which she concealed, suspecting that there was something
wrong about the transmission of the letters, until a chance offered
for having it certainly placed in the right channel of conveyance.
This note reached Theodore, and removed a mountain from his
feelings. He had learned of her hasty journey to Albany, but this
was all he could ascertain, and suspecting the cause, his mind was
in a state of racking and painful suspense.
Day after day passed, until a month had expired, and still there was
no indication of a movement to return home. Once or twice a week her
father would come up from New York, and to the persuasions of the
relatives at whose house they were visiting, half-consented that
Constance and her mother should stay all summer. Finally, it was
decided, that Albany should be their place of residence for some
months.
Things assuming this decided appearance, Constance now set herself
resolutely to work to circumvent her mother's careful surveillance.
It was the first time in her life that she had seriously determined
to act towards the parent she had so long and so tenderly loved,
with duplicity. All at once she became more cheerful, and seemed to
enter with a joyful spirit into every plan proposed for spending the
time pleasantly. With a sprightly cousin, a young girl of her own
age, she cultivated a close intimacy, and finding her somewhat
romantic and independent, finally confided to her the secret that
was wearing into her heart from concealment. Readily did Ellen
Raymond enter into the scheme she at last proposed, which was to
write to Theodore, and give the letter into her charge. It was
promptly conveyed to the post-office. Theodore was directed to
address Ellen, and in the envelope to enclose a letter for
Constance. On the third day, the young ladies took a walk, and in
their way called at the post-office. A letter was handed out to
Ellen, and on breaking the seal, another appeared addressed to
Constance. She did not dare to open it in the street, but retired to
a confectioner's, and while Ellen was tasting an ice-cream,
Constance was devouring, with eager eyes, the first love-token she
had ever received from Theodore Wilmer.
This was the beginning of a correspondence which was regularly kept
up through the summer, of all of which both father and mother
remained profoundly ignorant. They were delighted to see their
daughter so soon recover from the first deep depression of spirits
which was occasioned by their sudden removal from New York, but
little suspected the cause. Less and less carefully did the mother
watch her daughter, and more frequently were the two young friends
alone in their chambers, even for hours together. Such times were
not spent idly by Constance. Thus the very
means--separation--resorted to by Mr. Jackson and his wife, to wean
the mind of their daughter from the "low-born" Wilmer, only proved,
from not having been thoroughly carried out, that which bound them
together in heart for ever. Give two lovers, pen, ink, and paper,
and their love will defy time and distance. The thousand expressed
fond regards, and weariness of absence, endear each to each; and
imagination, from affection, invests each with new and undiscovered
perfections. Three months had passed away since the hasty journey
from New York, and supposing Constance to be thoroughly weaned from
her foolish preference for a poor clerk, for she was now cheerful,
and expressed no wish to return--the parents proposed to go back to
the city. Preparation was accordingly made, and in a few days
Constance found herself, with a yearning desire to get home again,
gliding swiftly along the smooth surface of the Hudson. She had not
failed to inform Theodore of her return, and as the boat swept up to
the wharf, her quick eye caught his eager face bending over towards
her. A glance of glad, and yet painful recognition passed between
them, and in the next moment he had disappeared in the living mass
of human beings. For some time she was closely watched; but she
carefully lulled suspicion, and at last succeeded in managing to get
short and stolen interviews with Wilmer. Their first meeting was at
a young friend's, to whom she had confided her secret: this was not
Laura Wykoff, for her mother had managed to fall out with her
family, so as to have a good plea for denying to Constance the
privilege of visiting her. Regularly did the lovers meet, about once
every week, at this friend's; and, encouraged by her, they finally
took the hazardous and decisive step of getting married
clandestinely.
Three days after this event, Wilmer entered the store of the
merchants in whose service he had been for years, for the purpose of
resuming his regular duties which had been briefly interrupted. He
was met by the senior partner, with a manner that chilled him to the
heart.
"Is Mr. Wykoff in?" he asked.
"No," was the cold reply.
"He has not left town?"
"Yes. He went to New Orleans yesterday, and will not return for two
or three months."
"Did he leave a letter for me?"
"No."
Then came an embarrassing silence of some moments which was broken
by Wilmer's saying--
"I suppose that I can resume my duties, as usual?"
"We have supplied your place," was the answer to this.
Quick as thought, the young man turned away, and left the store, his
mind all in confusion. In marrying Constance in opposition to her
parents' wishes, he did so with a feeling of pride in the internal
power, and external facilities, which he possessed for rising
rapidly in the world, and showing ere long to old Mr. Jackson, that
he could stand upon an equal social eminence with himself. How
suddenly was this feeling of proud confidence dashed to the earth!
The external facilities upon which he had based his anticipations
were to be found in the friendship and ample means of the house of
Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co. That friendship had been suddenly
withdrawn, evidently in strong disapprobation of what he had done.
As he turned away, and walked slowly along, he knew not and scarcely
cared whither, a feeling of deep despondency took possession of his
mind. From a proud consciousness of ability to rise rapidly in the
world, and show to the friends of Constance that she had not chosen
one really beneath her, he sunk into that gloomy and depressing
state of mind in which we experience a painful inability to do
anything, while deeply sensible that unusual efforts are required at
our hands. The thought of not being able to lift his wife above the
obscure condition in which he must now inevitably remain, at least
for a long time, seemed as if it would drive him mad. Passing slowly
along, wrapped thus in gloomy meditations, he was suddenly aroused
by a hand upon his arm, and a cheerful voice, saying--
"Give us your hand, Theodore! Here's a hearty shake, and a hearty
congratulation at the same time! Run off with that purse--proud old
curmudgeon's daughter Ha! ha! I like you for that! You're a man of
mettle. But, halloo! What's the matter? You look as grave as a
barn-door, on the shady side. Not repenting, already, I hope?"
"Yes, Henry, I am repenting of that rash act from the very bottom of
my heart."
"O, no! Don't talk in that way, Theodore. Constance is one of the
sweetest girls in the city, and will make you a lovely wife. There
are hundreds who envy you."
"They need not; for this is the most wretched hour of my life."
"Why, what in the world is the matter, Wilmer?" his friend replied
to this. "You look as if you had buried instead of married a wife.
But come, you want a glass of something to revive you. Let us step
in here. I am a little dry myself."
Without hesitation or reply, Wilmer entered a drinking-house, with
the young man, where they retired to a box, and ordered brandy and
water. After this had been taken in silence, the friend, whose name
was Wilbert Arnold, said--
"The state of mind in which I find you, Theodore, surprises and
pains me greatly. If it is not trespassing too far upon private
matters, I should like very much to know the reason. I ask, because
I feel now, and always have felt, much interest in you."
It was some time before Wilmer replied to this. At length, he said--
"The cause of my present state of mind is of such recent occurrence,
and I have become so bewildered in consequence of it, that I can
scarcely rally my thoughts sufficiently to reply to your kind
inquiries. Suffice it to say, that, in consequence, I presume, of my
having run off with Mr. Jackson's daughter, I have lost a good
situation, and the best of friends. I am, therefore, thrown upon the
world at this very crisis, like a sailor cast upon the ocean, with
but a plank to sustain himself, and keep his head above the waves.
When I married Miss Jackson, it was with the resolution to rise
rapidly, and show to the world that she had not chosen
thoughtlessly. Of course, I expected the aid of Rensselaer, Wykoff &
Co. Their uniform kindness towards me seemed a sure guarantee for
this aid. But the result has been, not only their estrangement from
me, but my dismissal from their service. And now, what to do, or
where to turn myself, I do not know. Really I feel desperate!"
"That is bad, truly," Arnold rejoined, musingly, after Wilmer had
ceased speaking. Then ringing a little hand-bell that stood upon the
table, he ordered the waiter, was obeyed the summons, to bring some
more brandy. Nothing further was said until the brandy was served,
of which both of the young men partook freely.
"What do you intend doing?" Arnold at length asked, looking his
friend in the face.
"I wish you would answer that question for me, for it's more than I
can do," was the gloomy response.
"You must endeavour to rise in the world. It will never do to bring
Constance down to the comparatively mean condition in which a clerk
with a small salary is compelled to live."
"That I know, too well. But how am I to prevent it? That is what
drives me almost beside myself."
"You must hit upon some expedient for making money fast."
"I know of no honest expedients."
"I think that I do."
"Name one."
"Do you know Hardville?"
"Yes."
"He came as near failure as could possibly be, last week."
"He did?"
"Yes."
"And how did he get through?"
"It is the answer to that question which I wish you to consider. He
was saved from ruin in the last extremity, and by what some would
call a desperate expedient. Your case is a desperate one, and, if
you would save yourself, you must resort to desperate expedients,
likewise."
"Name the expedient."
"Hardville had one thousand dollars to pay, more than he could
possibly raise. He tried everywhere, but to no purpose. He could
neither borrow nor collect that sum. In a moment of desperation, he
put one hundred dollars into his pocket, and went to a regular
establishment near here, and staked that sum at play. In two hours
he came away with twelve hundred dollars in his pocket, instead of
one hundred. And thus he was saved from ruin."
When Arnold ceased speaking, Wilmer looked him in the face with a
steady, stern, half-angry look, but made no reply.
"Try another glass of this brandy," the former said, pouring out a
pretty liberal supply for each. Mechanically, Wilmer put the glass
to his lips, and turned off the contents.
"Well, what do you think of that plan?" asked the friend, after each
had sat musing for some time.
"I am not a gambler!" was the reply.
"Of course not. But your case, as I said, and as you admit, is a
desperate one; and requires desperate remedies. The fact of your
going to a regular establishment, and gaining there, in an
honourable way, something, as a capital to begin with, does not make
you a gambler. After you have got a start, you needn't go there any
more. And all you want is a start. Give you that, and, my word for
it, you will make your way in the world with the best of them."
"O, yes! Give me a start, as you say, and I'll go ahead as fast as
anybody. Give me that start, and I'll show old Mr. Jackson in a few
years that I can count dollars with him all day."
"Exactly. And that start you must have. Now, how are you going to
get it, unless in the way that I suggest?"
"I am not so sure that I can get it in that way."
"I am, then. Only make the trial. You owe it to your wife to do so.
For her sake, then, let me urge you to act promptly and
efficiently."
Thus tempted, while his mind was greatly obscured by the strong
potations he had taken, Theodore Wilmer began to waver. It did not
seem half so wrong, nor half so disgraceful, to play for money, as
it did at first. Finally, he agreed to meet his friend that evening,
and get introduced to some one of the many gambling establishments
that infest all large cities.
A reaction in his feelings now took place. The elation of mind
caused by the brandy, made him confident of success. He saw before
him a rapid elevation to wealth and standing in society, and,
consequently, a rapid restoration of Constance to the circle in
which she had moved.
Before marriage, he had rented a handsome house, and had it
furnished in very good style, upon means which he had prudently
saved from a liberal salary. Into this, he at once introduced his
young wife, who had already begun to feel her heart yearning for her
mother's voice, and her mother's smile. One young friend had been
with her all the morning, but had left towards the middle of the day
Alone, for the first time, since her hurried marriage, her feelings
became somewhat saddened in their hue. But as the hour approached
for her husband to come home, those feelings gate place, in a
degree, to an ardent desire for his return, the result of deep and
fervent love for him. She had sat for some moments, expecting to
hear him at the door, when the bell rung, and she started to her
feet, and stood on the floor, ready to spring forward the moment he
should enter the room. No one, however, came in, and her heart sunk
in her bosom with the disappointment. In a moment after, the servant
handed her a note, the seal of which she broke hastily. It was from
her husband, and ran thus:--
"DEAR CONSTANCE:--An accumulation of business in my absence so
presses upon me now, that I cannot possibly come so great a distance
to dinner, at least for this day. It may likewise keep me away until
eight or nine o'clock this evening. But keep a good heart, dear; our
meeting will be pleasanter for the long absence--Adieu,
THEODORE."
The note dropped from her hand, and she sank into a chair, overcome
with a feeling of strong disappointment. To wait until eight or nine
o'clock in the evening, before she should see him, when the morning
had appeared lengthened to a day! O, it seemed as if she could not
endure the wearisome interval!
As for Wilmer, the truth was, he found himself so much under the
influence of the liberal quantity of brandy which he had taken, that
he dared not go home to Constance. He would not have appeared before
her as he was, for the world. It was under the consciousness of his
condition, that he wrote the billet, which his young wife had
received. After doing so, he went to bed at a public house, and
slept until towards evening. When he awoke, Arnold was sitting in
the chamber. Some feelings of bitter regret for the pains which his
absence must have caused his young wife, passed through his mind, as
he aroused himself. These were soon drowned by a few glasses of
wine, which his friend had already ordered to be sent up. That
friend, let it here be remarked, was not a professed gambler--nor
had he any sinister designs in urging on Wilmer as he was doing. But
he was a man of loose morals, and, therefore, really believed that
he was doing him a service in urging him to make an effort to get
upon his feet by means of the gambling-table. Knowing the young
man's high-toned feelings--and how utterly he must, from his
character, condemn anything like play, he had purposely sought to
obscure his perceptions by inducing him to drink freely. In this, he
had succeeded.
As soon as night had thrown her dark shadows over the city, the two
young men took their steps towards one of those haunts, known, too
appropriately, by the name of "hells." At eight o'clock, Theodore
went in, with two hundred dollars in his pocket--all the money he
possessed;--and at ten o'clock, came out penniless.
Lonely and long was the afternoon to the young bride, giving
opportunity to many thoughts of a sober, and even saddening nature.
Evening came at last, and then night with its deeper gloom. Eight
o'clock arrived, and nine, but her husband did not return. And then
the minutes slowly passed, until the clock struck ten.
"O, where can he be!" Constance ejaculated, rising to her feet, and
beginning to pace the room to and fro, pausing every moment to
listen to the sound of passing footsteps. Thus she continued for the
space of something like half an hour, when she sunk exhausted upon a
chair. It was twelve o'clock when he at length came in. As he opened
the door, his young wife sprung to his side, exclaiming--
"O, Theodore! Theodore! Why have you staid away so very long?"
As she said this, he staggered against her, almost throwing her
over, and then passed on to the parlors without a word in return to
her earnest and affectionate greeting.
Poor Constance was stunned for the moment. But she quickly
recovered, her woman's heart nerving itself involuntarily, and
followed after her husband. He had thrown himself upon a sofa, and
sat, half-reclining, with his head upon his bosom.
"Are you sick, dear Theodore?" his young wife asked, in a tone of
deep and earnest affection, laying her hand upon him, and bending
down and kissing his forehead.
"Yes, I am sick, Constance," was the half-stupid reply--
"Come, then, let me assist you up to bed. A good night's rest will
do you good," she said, gently urging him to rise.
She understood perfectly his condition. She knew that it was
intoxication. But while it pained her young heart deeply, it awoke
in her bosom no feelings of alarm. She felt convinced that it was
the result of accident, and had no expectation of ever again seeing
its recurrence. She asked him if he were sick, to spare him the
mortification of knowing that she perceived the true nature of his
indisposition.
Thus urged, he at once arose, and supported by the weak arm of his
young wife, slowly ascended the stairs, and entered his chamber. It
was not many minutes before his senses were locked in profound
slumber.
Not so, however, Constance. The earnestness with which she had
looked for evening to come, that she might again see the face, and
hear the voice of her husband, had greatly excited her mind. This
excitement was increased by the condition in which he had so
unexpectedly returned. The effect was, to keep her awake, in spite
of strong efforts to sink away into sleep. Many sad and desponding
thoughts forced themselves upon her, as she lay, hour after hour, in
a state of half-waking consciousness. It was nearly day-dawn, when,
from all this, she found relief in a deep slumber.
The next day was one of heart-aching reflections to Theodore Wilmer.
In his eager, but half-insane effort to elevate himself rapidly for
the sake of his young wife, he had sunk into actual want, and not
only forfeited his own self-respect, but degraded himself, he felt,
in the eyes of her whose love was dearer to him than life.
The events of two years must now be passed over, with but a brief
notice. There will be enough in the after history of Wilmer and his
young wife, to awaken the reader's keenest sympathies, without
unveiling the particular incidents of this period.
Suffice it, then, to say,--that the first night's experience at the
gambling-table was not enough to satisfy Wilmer, that it was neither
the right way, nor the most successful way of elevating himself in
the world. So anxious did he feel on account of Constance, that be
borrowed money of his false friend Arnold, on the evening of the
very next day, and after drinking, freely, to nerve himself up,
sought again the gambling-table. At ten o'clock, he left, the winner
by fifty dollars. He left thus early on account of his wife, who
would be, he knew, anxiously looking for his return. This encouraged
him to go on, and he did go on. But he could never feel sanguine of
success, or be able to still the troubled whispers within, until he
had drunken freely. Of course, he was every day more or less under
the influence of liquor. For a year, he managed, in this way, to
keep up the style of living in which he had commenced, but he could
get nothing ahead. None could imagine how this was done, for the
young man was exceedingly cautious. He looked to some good turn of
fortune by which he should be enabled to abandon for ever a course
of life that he hated and despised. No such lucky turn, however, met
his anxious expectations. After the first year of this course of
life, his health, which had never been very good, began rapidly to
fail. His cheeks became hollow, and a racking cough began to show
itself. Still he went on keeping late hours, and drinking more and
more freely, while his mind was all the time upon the rack. Towards
the close of the second year, he was taken down with a severe
illness, the result of all this abuse of mind and body. He lingered
long upon the brink of the grave; but the little energy which his
system retained, rallied at last, and he began slowly to recover.
During convalescence, he had full time for reflection. For full two
years, he had been almost constantly so much under the influence of
brandy, as really to be unable to think rationally upon any subject,
and he had, in consequence, pursued a course of life, injurious,
both to his own moral and physical health, and to the happiness of
her for whom he would, at any moment of that time, have sacrificed
everything, even life itself. In rising from that bed of sickness,
it was with a solemn vow never again to enter a gaming-house, and
never again to touch the bewildering poison that had been the
secondary, if not, indeed, the primary cause of two years'
folly--nay, madness.
And Constance, what of her, all that time? the reader asks. It would
be a difficult task to give even a feeble idea of all she patiently
endured, and of all she suffered. Not once in that long period did
she either see, or hear from her parents. Three or four times had
she written to them, but no answer was returned. At last she
ventured under the yearning anxiety that she felt once more to see
her mother, and to hear the voice that lingered in her memory like
old familiar music to go to her, and ask her forgiveness and her
love. But she was coldly and cruelly repulsed--not even being
permitted to gain her mother's presence.
In regard to her husband, her love was like a deep, pure stream. Its
course was never troubled by passion, or obstructed in its onward
course. Though he would come home often and often in a state of
stupor from drink--though it was rarely earlier than midnight when
he returned to make glad with his presence her watching and waiting
heart, she never felt a reproaching thought. And to her, his words
and tones, and manner, were ever full of tenderness. Deeply did he
love her--and for her sake more than for his own, was he struggling
thus against a powerful current daily exhausting his strength,
without moving onward.
Thus much, briefly, of those two years of toil, and struggle, and
pain. On recovering, with a shattered constitution, from the serious
attack of illness that had resulted from the abuse of himself during
that period, Wilmer felt compelled to give up his fondly-cherished
ideas of rising with Constance to the position from which he had
dragged her down, and to be content with a humbler lot. He,
therefore, sought, and obtained a situation as a clerk at a salary
of eight hundred dollars per annum. Already he had been compelled to
move into a smaller house than the one at first taken, and in this
he was now able to remain.
But seeing, with a clearer vision than before, Wilmer perceived that
much of the bloom had faded from his wife's young cheek, and that
her heart had not ceased to yearn for the home and loved ones of her
earlier years.
Another year passed away, and during the whole of that time not one
word of kindness or censure reached the ears of Constance from her
parents. They seemed to have not only cast her off, abut to have
forgotten the fact of her existence. To a mind like that of Theodore
Wilmer's, any condition in which a beloved one was made to suffer
keenly, and as he believed, alone through him, could not be endured
without serious inroads upon a shattered constitution; and much to
his alarm, by the end of the year he found that he was less able
than usual to attend through the whole day to the fatiguing duties
of the counting-room. Frequently he would return home at night with
a pain in his breast, that often continued accompanied by a
troublesome cough through a greater part of the night. The morning,
too, often found him feverish and debilitated, and with no appetite.
The engrossing love of a mother for her first-born, relieved, during
this year, in a great degree, the aching void of Constance Wilmer's
breast. The face of her sweet babe often reflected a smile of deep,
heart-felt happiness, lighting up, ere it faded away into the sober
cast of thought, a feeble ray upon the face of her husband. The
steady lapse of days, and weeks, and months, brought a steady
development of the mind and body of their little one. He was the
miniature image of his father, with eyes, in which Wilmer could see
all the deep love which lay in the dark depths of those that had won
his first affections. Happy would they have been but (who would not
be happy were it not for that little word?) for one yearning desire
in the heart of Constance for the lost love of her mother--but for
the trembling fear of want that stared Theodore daily in the face.
His salary as clerk was small, and to live in New York cost them no
trifle. At last, owing to the failure of the house by which he was
employed, the dreaded event came. He was out of a situation, and
found it impossible to obtain one. the failure had been a very bad
one, and there was a strong suspicion of unfair dealing. The
prejudice against the house, extended even to the clerks, and
several of them, finding it very difficult to get other places that
suited them, left New York for other cities. One of them, a friend
to Wilmer, came to Baltimore, and got into a large house; a vacancy
soon occurring, he recommended Wilmer, who was sent for. He came at
once, for neither to him nor his wife was there anything attractive
in New York. His salary was to be five hundred dollars.
In removing to Baltimore, he took with him the greater part of the
furniture that he had at first purchased, some of which was of a
superior quality. There he rented a small house, and endeavoured by
the closest economy to make his meagre salary sufficient to meet
every want. But this seemed impossible.
Gradually, every year he found himself getting behind-hand, from
fifty to sixty dollars. The birth of a second child added to his
expenses; and, the failing health of his wife, increased then still
more. Finally, he got in arrears with the agent of Mr. Moneylove,
his landlord. At this time, an apparently rapid decline had become
developed in the system of his wife, and on the night on which he
had appealed to this person's feelings of humanity, as mentioned in
the opening of the story, he found her, on his return, extremely
ill. A high fever had set in, and she was suffering. much from
difficult respiration. The physician must, of course, be called in,
even though but the day before he had put off his collector for the
tenth time. Sad, from many causes, he turned again from the door of
his dwelling, and sought the physician.
He rang the bell, and waited with a throbbing heart, for the
appearance of the man he earnestly desired, and yet dreaded to; see.
When he heard his step upon the stairs, his cheek began to burn, and
he even trembled as a criminal might be supposed to tremble in the
presence of his judge. For a moment he thought only of his unpaid
bill, in the next of his suffering wife. The physician entered.
Theodore hesitated, and spoke in a low, timid voice, as he requested
a call that night upon his wife.
"Is Mrs. Wilmer very ill?" inquired the physician, in a kind voice.
"I fear seriously so, sir."
"How long has she been sick?"
"It has been several weeks since she complained of a pain in her
side; and all that time she has been troubled with a hard cough. For
the last few days she has hardly been able to move about, and
to-night she is in a high fever, and finds great difficulty in
breathing."
"Then she must be attended to, at once. Why did you not call before,
Mr. Wilmer? Such delays, you know, are very dangerous."
"I do--I do--but"--Wilmer hesitated, and looked troubled and
confused.
"But what, Mr. Wilmer?" urged the physician in the kindest manner.
"I--I--I have not been able to pay your last bill, much as I have
desired it. My salary is small, and I find it very difficult to get
along."
"Still, my dear sir, health and life are of great value. And
besides, if you had called in a physician at the earliest stage of
Mrs. Wilmer's illness, you might have saved much expense, as well as
spared her much suffering. But cheer up, sir; bright sunshine always
succeeds the cloud and the storm. I shall be glad to have my bill
when it is convenient, and not before. Don't let it cause you an
uneasy moment."
The kind manner of the physicians soothed his feelings, and the
prompt visit, and prompt relief given softened the stern anguish of
his troubled spirit. The bruised reed is never broken. When the
stricken heart is tried, it is never beyond the point of endurance.
In no instance had Wilmer drawn from his employers more than his
regular salary, no matter how pressing were his necessities. Beyond
the contract he had entertained no desire to go, but strove, in
everything, to keep down his expenses to his slender income. Now,
however, in view of the threat made by the collector of rents, after
having thought and thought about it until bewildered with a
distressing sense of his almost hopeless condition, he came to the
resolution to ask an advance of fifty dollars, to be kept back from
his regular wages, at the rate of five dollars a month. For some
hours he pondered this plan in his mind, and obtained much relief
from the imaginary execution of it, But when the moment came to ask
the favour, his heart sank within him, and his lips were sealed. In
alternate struggles like this, the morning of the first day passed,
after his interview with Mr. Money. love, and still he had not been
able to prefer his humble request. When he went home to dine, in
consequence of the continued perturbation of his mind for hours, he
was pale and nervous, with no inclination for food. To add to his
distress of mind, his oldest child, now a fine boy of four summers,
had been taken extremely ill since morning, and the anxiety
consequent upon it, had painfully excited the feeble system of his
wife. Another visit from the physician became necessary, and was
promptly made.
Frequently, in consequence of pressing calls at home, he had been
almost forced to remain longer away from his place of business at
dinner-time, than was customary for the clerks. On this day, two
hours had glided by when his hasty foot entered the store, on his
return from dinner. His fears of a distraint for rent were greatly
heightened in consequence of the increased illness of his family,
and as the only way to prevent it that had occurred to his mind, was
to obtain from his employers a loan of fifty dollars as just
mentioned, he had fully made up his mind to waive all feeling and at
once name his request. Two hours we have said had expired since he
went home to dine. On his entering the counting-room, the senior
partner of the house drew out his watch, and remarked, rather
angrily, that he could not permit such neglect of duty in a clerk,
and that unless he kept better hours, he must look for another
place.
It was some time before the confusion of his mind, consequent upon
this censure and threat, subsided sufficiently to allow him to feel
keenly the utter prostration of the last expectation for help, that
had arisen like an angel of hope, in what seemed the darkest hour of
his fate. And bitter indeed, were then his thoughts. Those who have
never felt it, cannot imagine the awful distress which the mind
feels, while contemplating the wants of those who are dearer than
all the world, without possessing the means of relieving them. At
times, there is a wild excitement, an imaginary consciousness of
power to do all things; too quickly, alas! succeeded by the chilling
certainty that honestly and honourably it _can do nothing_.
Slowly and painfully passed the hours until nightfall, and then
Wilmer again sought with hasty steps the nest that sheltered his
beloved ones. Alas! the spoiler had been there. True to his threat,
the agent of Mr. Moneylove had taken quick means to get his own. All
of his furniture had been seized, and not only seized, but nearly
everything, except a bed and a few chairs, removed in his absence.
"O, Constance, _what_ is the meaning of this?" was his agonized
question, to his weeping wife, who met him ill as she was at the
door, and hid her face in his bosom, like a dove seeking protection.
"I cannot tell, Theodore. Everything has been carried off under
distraint for rent, so they said, who came here. But you do not owe
any rent, do you? I am sure you never mentioned it."
"It is too true--too true," was his only answer. Carefully had
Wilmer concealed from his wife all his troubles. He could not think
of adding one pang more to the heart that had already suffered so
much on his account. Wisely he did not act in this, but few can
blame the weakness that shrunk from giving pain to a beloved object.
There are few who have not, sometime in life, found themselves in
situations of trial and distress, in which nothing was left them but
submission. In that very condition did this lonely family, strangers
in a strange place, find themselves on this night of strong trial.
They experienced a ray of comfort, and that was the apparent health
re-action in the system of their sick child. With this to cheer
them, they gathered their two little ones with them in their only
bed, and slept soundly through the night.
Their servant had left them the day before, and they were spared the
mortification of having such a witness of their humiliation. Mrs.
Wilmer found it somewhat difficult to prepare their food on the next
morning, as even her kitchen furniture had nearly all shared the
fate of the rest, and she found herself very feeble. Something like
three hundred dollars worth had been taken for a debt of forty or
fifty. The slender breakfast over, with the reprimand of the day
before painfully fresh in his mind, Wilmer hastened away to the
counting-room. He had only been a few moments at the desk, when the
partner who had spoken to him the day before, came up with the
morning's paper in his hand, and pointing to an advertisement of a
sale of furniture seized for rent due by Theodore Wilmer, asked him
if he was the person named. Wilmer looked at him for some moments,
vainly attempting to reply, his face exhibiting the most painful
emotions--finally, he laid his head upon the desk without a word,
and gave way to tears. It was a weakness, but he was not then
superior to it.
"How much do you owe for rent?"
"Forty dollars."
"Forty dollars! And is it for this sum alone that your furniture has
been taken?"
"That is all I owe for rent."
"Then why did you not let us know your condition? You should have
had more consideration for your family."
"Yesterday, sir," Wilmer replied, somewhat bitterly, "I came here
from dinner, after having been unavoidably detained with a sick
child, resolved to conquer my reluctance, and ask for the loan of
fifty dollars, to be deducted from my salary, at the rate of five
dollars a month. But your reproof for remissness deterred me. And
when I returned home, the work had been done. They have left us but
a bed, a few chairs, and a common table. Oh, sir, it seems as if it
would kill me!"
"But, my dear sir, when I complained, you owed it to yourself, and
you owed it to me, to explain. How could I know your peculiar
situation?"
"Have you ever felt, sir, that no one cared for you? As if even
Heaven had forgotten you? If not, then you cannot understand my
feelings. It may be wrong, but always meaning to act justly towards
every one, I feel so humbled by accusation, that I have no heart to
explain. It seems to me that others should know that I would not
wrong them."
"It certainly is wrong, Mr. Wilmer. Suppose you had simply mentioned
yesterday the illness of your child; I should at once have withdrawn
my censure, and probably have made some kind inquiry; you would then
have been more free to prefer your request, which would have been at
once granted. See what it would have saved your family."
"I see it all. Feeling always obscures the judgment."
"To one in your particular situation, a right knowledge of the truth
you have just uttered is all-important. No matter what may be your
condition, never suffer feeling to become so acute as to dim your
sober thoughts, and paralyze your right actions. But here are a
hundred dollars. Redeem your things, and get on your feet again.
Take them as an advance on your salary for the last year; and draw
six hundred instead of five, in future."
A grateful look told the joy of his heart, as he hastened away. In
one hour the furniture which the day before had been forcibly taken
away, was at his own door.
Relief from present embarrassment, and a fair prospect of a full
support for the future, gave Wilmer a lighter heart than he had
carried in his bosom for many months. The reaction made him for a
time happy. But, while our hearts are evil, we cannot be happy,
except for brief periods. The disease will indicate by pain its
deep-rooted presence.
The drooping form of his wife soon called his thoughts back to
misery. Health had wandered away, and the smiling truant strayed so
long, that hope of her return had almost forsaken them.
Nearly five years had passed since Constance turned away, almost
broken-hearted, from the door-stone of her father's house; and
during all that long, long time, she had received no token of
remembrance. She dared not suffer herself to think even for a moment
on the cruel fact. The sudden, involuntary remembrance of such a
change from the fondest affection to the most studied disregard,
would almost madden her.
As for Wilmer, the recollection of the past was as a thorn in his
pillow, too often driving sleep from a wearied frame, that needed
its health-restoring influence. And often, deep and bitter were his
self-reproaches. But for his fatal and half-insane abandonment of
himself to the vain hope of gaining a foothold by which he might
rapidly elevate his condition for the sake of Constance, he was now
conscious that, slowly, but surely, he would have risen, by the
power of an internal energy of character. And more deeply conscious
was he, that, but for the half-intoxicated condition in which he was
when he consented to go to a gaming-house, he never would have
abandoned himself to gaming and drinking as he did for two long
years of excited hopes, and dark, gloomy despondency. Two years,
that broke down his spirits, and exhausted the energies of his
physical system. Two years, from whose sad effects, neither mind nor
body was ever again able to recover.
But now let us turn from the cast-off, from the forsaken, to the
parents who had estranged themselves from their child.
A foreign arrival had brought letters from Mr. Jackson's agent in
Holland, containing information of a great fall in tobacco. Large
shipments had been made by several houses, and especially by that of
Mr. Jackson, in anticipation of high prices resulting from a
scarcity of the article in the German markets. But the shipments had
been too large, and a serious decline in price was the consequence.
Any interruption of trade, by which the expectation of profits
entertained for months is dashed to the ground in a moment, has,
usually, the effect to make the merchant unhappy for a brief period.
It takes some time for the energies of his mind, long directed in
one course, to gather themselves up again, and bend to some new
scheme of profit. The "tobacco speculation" of 18--, had been a
favourite scheme of Mr. Jackson's, and he had entered into it more
largely than any other American house. Its failure necessarily
involved him in a heavy loss.
As evening came quietly down, sobering into a browner mood the
feelings of Mr. Jackson, the merchant turned his steps slowly
towards his home. Naturally, the smiling image of his daughter came
up before his mind, and he quickened his pace instinctively. He
remembered how nearly he had lost even this darling treasure, and
chid himself for being troubled at the loss of a few thousand
dollars, when he was so rich in the love of a lovely child. He rang
the bell with a firmer hand, and stepped more lightly as he entered
the hall, in anticipation of the sweet smile of his heart's darling.
He felt a little disappointed at not finding her in the
sitting-room, but did not ask for her, in expectation of seeing her
enter each moment. So much was he engrossed with her image that he
almost forgot his business troubles. Gradually his mind, from the
over-excitement of the day, became a little fretted, as he listened
in vain for her light foot-fall at the door. When the bell rung for
tea, he started, and asked,--
"Where is Constance?"
"In her room, I suppose," replied Mrs. Jackson, indifferently. They
seated themselves at the tea-table, and waited for a few moments;
but Constance did not come.
"John, run up and call Constance; perhaps she did not hear the
bell."
John returned in a moment with the intelligence that his young
mistress was not there.
"Then, where is she?" asked both the parents at once.
"Don't know," replied John, mechanically.
"Call Sarah."
Sarah came.
"Where is Constance?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Did she go out this afternoon?"
"Yes, ma'am. She went out about two hours ago, ma'am."
"That's strange," said her mother. "She always tells me where she is
going."
Both parents left the tea-table, each with a heavy presentiment of
coming trouble about the heart. They went, as by one consent, to
Constance's chamber. The mother proceeded to look into her drawers,
and found to her grief and astonishment that they were nearly all
empty.
For some time, neither spoke a word. The truth had flashed upon the
mind of each at the same moment.
"It may not yet be too late," were the first words spoken, and by
the mother.
"_It is too late,_" was the brief, but meaning response.
From that time her name was not mentioned, and even her portrait was
taken down and thrown into the lumber-room. Her few letters, after
her hasty and imprudent marriage, were burned up without being
opened. So much for wounded family pride! But think not that her
image was really obliterated from their minds. No--no. It was there
an ever constant and living presence.--
Though neither of the parents spoke of, or alluded to her, yet they
could not drive away her spiritual presence.
Year after year glided away, and though the name of Constance had
never passed their lips, and they knew nothing of her destiny; yet
as year after year passed, her image, now a sad, tearful image, grew
more and more distinct before their eyes. In their dreams they often
saw her in suffering and nigh unto death, and when they would
stretch forth their hands to save her, she would be snatched out of
their sight. Still they mentioned not her name; and the world
thought the cold-hearted, unnatural parents had even forgotten their
child.
But what had they now to live for? To such as they, no happiness
resulted from doing good to others, for the love of self had
extinguished all love of the neighbour. The passion for
accumulating, it is true, still remained with the merchant; but
trade had become so broken up and diverted from its old channels,
that he realized small profits, and frequent losses. Finally, he
retired from business, and from the city.
After the marriage of Constance, Mrs. Jackson found herself of far
less consideration in company. Few in high life are altogether
heartless, and all are ready to censure any exhibition of family
pride, which is carried so far as to alienate the parent from the
child. This feeling the mother of Constance found to prevail
wherever she went, and she never attributed the coolness of
fashionable acquaintances, nor the gradual falling away of more
intimate friends, to any other than the right cause. How could she?
In her case the adage was true to the letter--"A guilty conscience
needs no accusation."
Nearly ten years had passed away since the parents became worse than
childless. They were living at their country residence near Harlaem,
enduring, but not enjoying life. They had wealth, and every comfort
and luxury that wealth could bring. But the slave who toiled in the
burning sun, and prepared his own coarse food at night in a dirty
hovel, was happier than they. Even unto this time had they not
spoken together of their child, since the day of her departure.
One night in August, a terrible storm swept over New York and its
neighbourhood. Flash after flash of keen lightning blazed across the
sky, and peal after peal of awful thunder rent the air. It came up
about midnight, and continued for more than an hour. Mr. and Mrs.
Jackson were roused from slumber by this terrible war of the
elements. Its noise had troubled their sleep ere it awoke them, and
their dreams were of their child. During its awful continuance,
while they felt themselves more intimately in the hands of the
All-Powerful, their many sins passed rapidly before them, but the
stain that darkened the whole of the last ten years, the one crime
of many years, which made their hearts sick within them with a
strange fear, was their conduct towards their child. But neither
spoke of it. Upon this subject, for several years, they had been
afraid of each other.
The storm passed away, but they could not sleep. Wearied nature
sought, but could find no repose. Each tossed and turned and wished
for the morning, and when the morning began to dawn they closed
their eyes, and almost wished the darkness had continued. A troubled
sleep fell upon the husband, and in it he murmured the name of his
child. The quick ear of the mother caught the word, and it thrilled
through every nerve. Tears stole down her cheeks, and her heart
swelled near to bursting with maternal instincts. The vision of his
child that passed before him had been no pleasant one, and with the
murmur of her name he awoke to consciousness. Lifting himself up, he
saw the tearful face of his wife. He could not mistake the cause.
Why should she weep but for her child? He looked at her for a
moment, when she pronounced the name of Constance, and hid her
tearful face on his breast.
The fountain was now unsealed, and the feelings of the parents
gushed out like the flow of pent-up waters. They talked of
Constance, and blamed themselves, and wept for their lost one. But
where was she? how could they find her?
The sun had scarcely risen, when Mr. Jackson set out to seek for his
child, while his wife remained at home in a state of agonizing
suspense. He knew not whether she were alive or dead; in New York or
elsewhere. The second day brought Mrs. Jackson a letter, it ran as
follows:--
"I have searched in vain for our Constance. But how could it be
otherwise? Who should know more about her than myself? I have asked
some of our old acquaintances if they ever heard of her since her
marriage. They shake their heads and look at me as though they
thought me demented. Laura Wykoff, you know, married some years ago.
I called upon her. She knew little or nothing; but said, she had
heard that her husband who had become dissipated had left her and
gone off to Baltimore. She thought it highly probable that she had
been dead some years. She treated me coldly enough. But I feel
nothing for myself. Poor, dear child! where can thy lot be cast?
Perhaps, how dreadful the thought! she may have dragged her
drooping, dying form past our dwelling, once her peaceful home, and
looked her last look upon the door shut to her for ever, while the
cold winds of winter chilled her heart in its last pulsations. Oh, I
fear we have murdered our poor child! Every meagre-looking,
shrinking female form I pass on the street, makes my heart throb.
'Perhaps that is Constance,' I will say, and hasten to read the
countenance of the forlorn one. But I turn away, and sigh; 'where,
where can she be?'
"Since writing this, I have seen a young man who knew her husband.
He says, that after the failure of a house in which Wilmer was
employed, he went to Baltimore and took Constance with him. He says,
he knows this to be so, because he was well acquainted with Wilmer,
and shook hands with him on the steamboat when he went away. I
hinted to him what I had heard about Wilmer's leaving her. He
repelled the insinuation with warmth, and said, that he, Wilmer,
would have died rather than cause Constance a painful feeling--that
she certainly did go with him, for when he parted with Wilmer,
Constance was leaning on his arm. He says, she looked pale and
troubled; and mentioned that they had with them a sweet little baby.
Oh, how my heart yearns after my child!
"I have since learned the name of the firm in Baltimore in whose
employment he was, shortly after he went there. To-morrow morning I
shall go to that city. You shall hear from me on my arrival."
Nearly a week passed before Mrs. Jackson received further
intelligence from her husband. I will not attempt to describe her
feelings during that long time. In suffering or joy we discover how
relative and artificial are all our ideas of time.
The next letter ran thus:--
"Here I am in Baltimore, but it seems no nearer finding our child
than when I was in New York. The firm in whose employment Wilmer was
shortly after his arrival in Baltimore, has been dissolved some
years; and I am told that neither of the partners is now in this
city. I have not been able to learn the name of a single clerk who
was in their store. I feel disheartened, yet more eager every day to
find our lost one. Where can she be?
"A day more has passed since my arrival here, and I have a little
hope. I have found one of his former fellow-clerks. He says, that he
thinks Wilmer is still in town. I do not want to advertise for him,
if I can help it, but shall do so before I leave the city, if other
means fail. This young man tells me, that when he knew him he had
three children. He never saw our Constance. He represents Wilmer as
having been in bad health, and as generally appearing dejected. He
says, all his furniture was once seized and sold by the sheriff for
rent, but that it was redeemed next day by his employers, who
treated him very kindly on the occasion. I have heard nothing of the
poor boy that has not prepossessed me in his favour. I fear he has
had a hard time of it. How much happiness have we lost--how much
misery have we occasioned!--Surely we have lived in vain all our
lives! I feel more humbled every day since I left home.
"Since yesterday I have learned that he was in the city less than a
year ago--and that Constance was living. How my heart throbs! Shall
I see my own dear child again? Theodore, I fear, is in very bad
health, if still alive. He had to give up a good situation about a
year ago, as book-keeper in a large establishment here, where he was
much esteemed, on account of his health giving way so fast under the
confinement. I believe he took another situation as salesman in a
retail store, on a very small salary. Some one told me that
Constance had been under the necessity of taking in sewing, to help
to get a living--and all this time we had abundance all around us! I
call myself, 'wretch,'--and so I would call any other man who would
cast off his child, as I have done--a tender flower to meet the cold
winds of autumn.
"I have seen my child! my poor dear Constance! But oh, how changed!
While passing along the street to-day, almost in despair of ever
finding her--a slender female, about the same height of Constance,
passed me hastily. There was something peculiar, I thought, about
her, and I felt as I had never yet felt, while near a stranger. I
followed her, scarce knowing the reason why. She entered a
clothing-store, and I went in after her, and asked to look at some
article, I scarce knew what. Her first word startled me as would a
shock of electricity. It was my own child. But I could not make
myself known to her there. She laid down upon the counter three
vests, and then presented a small book. in which to have the work
entered. The entry was made, and the book handed back.
"'There are just three dollars due you,' said the man.
"'Three-and-a-half, I believe it is, sir.'
"'No, it's only three.'
"'Then I have calculated wrong. I thought it was three-and-a-half.'
"How mournful and disappointed was her tone!
"After standing for some time looking over her book, she said in a
lighter voice, 'well, I believe I _am_ right. See here; I have made
twenty-eight vests, and at twelve-and-a-half cents each, that is
three dollars and a half.'
"'Well, I believe you are right,' said the man, in a changed tone,
after looking over the book again.
"'Can you pay me to-day? I am much in want of it.'
"'No, I can't. I have a thousand dollars to pay in bank, and I
cannot spare anything before two or three days.'
"She paused a moment, and then went slowly towards the door;
lingered for a short time, and then turned to the man again. I then
saw for the first time, for ten long years, her face. How thin and
pale it was! how troubled its expression!--But it was the face of
our dear Constance. She did not look towards me; but turned again to
the shop-keeper, and said,
"'Be kind enough, sir, to let me have one dollar. I want it very
much!'
"'You give me more trouble about your money than any other workman I
have,' said the man roughly, as he handed her a dollar.
"She took it, unheeding the cruel remark, and before I could make up
my mind how to act, glided quickly away. I followed as hastily, and
continued to walk after her, until I saw her enter a large,
old-fashioned brick building. About this dwelling, there was no air
of comfort. In the door sat a little girl, and two boys, pale, but
pleasant-looking children. One of them clapped his little hands as
Constance passed them, and then got up and ran after her into the
house. They all had her own bright eyes. I would have known them for
(sic) her's anywhere.
"Does it not seem strange that I hesitated to go in at once to my
child. But I am at a loss what to do. Sometimes I think that I will
wait until you come on, and make her heart glad with the presence of
both at once. To-morrow I will write you again. The mail is just
closing; and I must send this."
After Wilmer had received the kindly proffered relief from his
employers, in an increase of salary, he was less troubled about the
daily wants of his family. But other sources of keen anxiety soon
presented themselves. His own health began to give way so rapidly as
to awaken in his mind, fearful apprehensions of approaching
inability to support his family; and Constance was not strong. Too
often, the pain in his breast and side was so severe as to make his
place at the desk little less than torture. A confirmed, short, dry
cough, not severe, but constant, also awakened his liveliest fears.
At the end of a year from the time when his employers began to feel
a kind interest in him, he was removed from the desk, and given more
active employment as salesman and out-of-door clerk. The benefit of
this change was soon felt. The pain in his breast and side gradually
gave way, his appetite increased, and his cough became less and less
irritating. But this improvement was only temporary. The disease had
become too deeply rooted. True, he suffered much less than while
confined at the desk, but the morbid indications were too constant
to leave him much of the flattery of hope.
Another year gradually rolled away, and with it came more changes,
and causes of concern. A little stranger had come into his family,
making three the number of his babes, and adding to the list of his
cares and his expenses; and it must also be said, to his pleasures.
For what parent, with the heart of a parent, be his condition what
it may, but rejoices in the number of the little ones whose eyes
brighten at his coming? But there was a change of greater importance
in his prospects. The firm in whose service he was, became involved
and had to wind up their business. All the clerks were in a short
time discharged, and Wilmer among the rest. The time was one of
great commercial pressure, and many long-established houses were
forced to yield; others were driven to great curtailment of
expenses. The consequence was that few were employing clerks, and
many dispensing with their services. Under the circumstances, Wilmer
found it impossible to obtain employment. Daily did he call at the
various stores and counting-rooms in the hope of meeting with a
situation, only to return to his dwelling more depressed and
disheartened.
By great economy, in view of approaching ill health, he had managed
to lay up, since the increase in his wages, nearly the amount of
that increase. He had done this, by living upon the same amount that
he before found to be inadequate to the support of his family. How
this was done, they only can know who have resolutely, from
necessity, made the same experiment, and found that the real amount
necessary to live upon is much smaller than is usually supposed.
This sum, about one hundred dollars, he had when he was thrown out
of employment scarcely enough to last for three months, under their
present expenses. It was with painful reluctance that Wilmer
trespassed upon this precious store, but he found necessity a hard
task-master.
Amid the gloom and darkness of his condition and prospects, there
was one bright star shining upon him with an ever-constant light. No
cloud could dim or obscure it. That light, that cheerful star, was
the wife of his bosom. The tie that bound her to her husband was not
an external one alone; she was wedded to him in spirit. Her
affection for him, as sorrow, and doubt, and fearful foreboding of
coming evils gathered about him, assumed more and more of the
mother's careful and earnest love for the peace of her child. She
met him with an ever-cheerful countenance; gently soothed his fears,
and constantly referred him to the overruling care of Divine
Providence. Affliction had wrought its proper work upon her
affections, and as they became gradually separated from the world,
they found a higher and purer source of attraction. From a
thoughtless girl, she had become a reflecting woman, and with
reflection had come. a right understanding of her duties. An angel
of comfort is such a woman to a man of keen sensibilities, who finds
his struggle in the world a hard and painful one.
Two months passed away in the vain effort to obtain employment.
Every avenue seemed shut against him. The power of endurance was
tried to its utmost strength, when he was offered a situation in an
iron-store, to handle iron, and occasionally perform the duties of a
clerk. Three hundred dollars was the salary. He caught at it, as his
last hope, with eagerness, and at once entered upon his duties. He
found them more toilsome than he had expected. The business was a
heavy one, and kept him at fatiguing labour nearly the whole day.
Never having been used to do hard work, he found on the morning of
the second day, that the muscles of his back, arms, and legs, were
so strained, that he could hardly move himself. He was as sore as if
he had been beaten with a heavy stick. This, however, in a great
measure, wore off, after he began to move about; but he found his
strength giving way much sooner on this day than on the preceding
one. At night, his head ached badly, he had no appetite, and was
feverish. On the next morning, however, he went resolutely to work;
but he felt so unfit for it, that he finally, referring in his own
mind to what he had suffered on a former occasion by not explaining
his true situation, determined to mention to his new employer how he
felt. and ask a little respite for a day or two, until his strength
should return. He, accordingly, left the large pile of iron which he
had commenced assorting, and entered the counting-room. He felt a
great degree of hesitation, but strove to keep it down, while he
summoned up resolution to utter distinctly and mildly his request.
The man of iron was busy over his bill-book when Wilmer sought his
presence, and looked up with a stern aspect.
"I feel quite sick," began Theodore, an older man than his employer,
"from working beyond my strength for the last two days, and should
be very glad if you could employ me at something lighter for as long
a time, until I recover myself, when I will be much stronger than
when I began, and able to keep steadily on. I have never been used
to hard labour, and feel it the more severely now."
Mr.--looked at him with a slight sneer for a moment, and then
replied,--
"I can't have any playing about me If my work suits you, well; if
not, there are a plenty whom it will suit."
Silently did Wilmer withdraw from the presence of the unfeeling man,
and turned with aching limbs to his toilsome work.
At night he found himself much worse than on the preceding evening;
and on the ensuing morning he was unable to go to the store. It was
nearly a week before he could again find his way out, and then he
was in a sadly debilitated state, from the effects of a fever
brought on by over-exertion. He went to the iron-store, and formally
declined his situation. No offer was made to reengage him, and as he
turned away from the door of the counting-room, he heard the man
remark, in a sneering under-tone to a person present, "a poor
milk-sop!"
Generally, the unfortunate are stung to the quick by any reflection
upon them by those in a better condition; and few were more alive to
ridicule than Wilmer. Both the condition and the constitutional
infirmity combined, made the remark of Mr.--produce in his bosom a
tempest of agitation; and for a moment he was roused from his usual
calm exterior; but he recovered himself as quick as thought, and
hurried away. He did not go directly home, but wandered listlessly
about for several hours. When he returned at the usual dinner hour,
he found his wife busily engaged in preparing dinner. Her babe was
asleep in the cradle, by which sat the eldest boy, touching it with
his foot, while the other little one, about four years old, was
prattling away to her baby-doll.
"Why Constance, where is Mary?"
"She has gone away," was the smiling reply.
"How comes that? I thought she appeared very well satisfied."
"She was very well pleased with her place, I believe; but as I have
taken it into my head to do without her, and am a very wilful
creature, as you know, why, there was no remedy but to let her get
another place. So I told her as much this morning, and she has
already found a pleasant situation--not so good, however, as this,
she says. Come, don't look so serious about it! Theodore can bring
water for me, and you can cut the wood, and among us we will do very
well. It is a pity if two people can't take care of themselves, and
three other little bodies besides. And just see what we will
save?--Four dollars a month for her wages, and her boarding into the
bargain. And you know, Mary, though a kind, good sort of a body, and
very industrious and obliging, eat almost as much as all the rest of
us together."
"Well, Constance, put as good a face upon the matter as you can, but
I feel that stern necessity has brought you to it."
"You must not talk so much about 'stern necessity,' Theodore. It is
surely no great hardship for me to sweep up the house every morning,
and get the little food we eat. I know that our income is cut off,
for I don't suppose you are going back to that iron-store again. But
there will be a way opened, for us. The kind Being who is trying us
for our good will not leave us in our last extremity. It is for us
to do the best we can, with what we can get. Now that our certain
resources are withdrawn, it is for us to limit our expenses to the
smallest possible sum. We have, it is true, lived quite frugally for
the past year. But it is possible for us to live on much less than
the five hundred dollars that it has cost. Our servant's wages and
boarding were at least one hundred dollars; and by the present
retrenchment we save that sum, and shall live just as comfortably,
for now we will all help to take care of each other."
"So far so good, my comforter! But where will the four hundred
dollars come from?"
"Well, let us go on. We pay one hundred and fifty dollars for this
house. By going out upon the suburbs of the town, we can get a
pleasant little house for five dollars a month."
"O, no, Constance, you are too fast."
"Not at all. I have seen just the little place that will suit us.
The house is not old, and everything around is sweet and clean. And
it's plenty big enough for us."
"Well, Constance, suppose by so doing we reduce our expenses to
three hundred and ten dollars. Where is that sum to come from? I
can't get any work."
"Don't despair, Theodore! We shall not be forsaken. But we must do
for ourselves the best we can. I have been turning over a plan in my
head, by which we can live much cheaper and a great deal happier;
for the less it takes us to live, the less care we shall have about
it."
"Go on."
"By moving into a smaller house, we can dispense with a great many
things which will then be of no use to us. These will bring us from
two to three hundred dollars, at public sale. Good furniture, you
know, always brings good prices."
"Well."
"With this money, we can live in a smaller house, without any
servant, for nearly a year; and surely you will get something to do
by next spring, even if you should be idle all winter."
Wilmer kissed the cheek of his wife, now glowing with the excitement
of cheerful hope, with a fervent and heartfelt affection, and
murmuring in a low voice--"My comforting angel!" turned with a
lighter heart than had beat in his bosom for months, to caress the
little girl, who was clamouring for her usual kiss.
That afternoon was spent in discussing the proposed retrenchment,
and in going to look at the little house which Mrs. Wilmer had
mentioned. It was small, but neat, and had a good yard, with a pump
at the door. They decided at once to take it, and obtained
possession of the key.
No time was lost in offering their superfluous furniture at public
sale; and to the satisfaction of both Wilmer and his wife, the
auctioneer returned them, after deducting his commissions, the net
sum of three hundred dollars.
In one week from the time of Mrs. Wilmer's proposition, they were
snugly packed away in their new residence.
Late in the fall, Wilmer obtained a situation as collector for one
of the newspaper offices, on a salary of four hundred dollars. This,
under the reduced expense system, and with the surplus on hand,
afforded them ample means. The exercise in the open air which it
allowed him, was greatly conducive to his health, and he soon showed
considerable improvement in body and mind. Things went on smoothly
and satisfactorily until about Christmas, when he took a violent
cold, on a wet day, which fell upon his lungs, and soon brought him
to a very weak state. From this, his recovery was so slow, and his
prospect of health so unpromising, that he found it a matter of
necessity to decline his situation, which was retained for him as
long as the office could wait.
During the whole of the remaining inclement weather of the winter
season, he found it necessary to keep within doors, as he invariably
took cold whenever he ventured out.
Perceiving the failure of her husband's health to be certainly and
rapidly progressing, Mrs. Wilmer dwelt in her own mind with painful
solicitude upon the probable means of support for them all, when his
strength should so entirely give way, as to render him altogether
unfitted for business. The only child of over-fond parents, rich in
this world's goods, she had received a thorough, fashionable
education, which fitted her for doing no one thing by which she
could earn any money. Her music had been confined to a few
fashionable waltzes and overtures; her French and Spanish were
nearly forgotten, and her proficiency in drawing and embroidery had
never been very great. In her girlish days she could dance
gracefully, and talk fashionable nonsense with a bewitching air when
it became necessary to amuse some sprig of fashion, or wield good
plain common sense with common sense people, when occasion called
for it. But as to possessing resources in herself for getting a
living in the world, that was another matter altogether. But there
is a creative power in necessity, which acts with wonderful skill
when the hour of trial comes. That hour had come with Constance, and
she steadily cast about her for the means of earning money.
Next door to where she lived was a widow woman with three grown-up
daughters, who were always busy working for the clothing-stores, or
"slop-shops," as they were called. She had made their acquaintance
during the winter, and found them kind and considerate of others,
and ever ready with an encouraging word, or serious advice when
called for. The very small compensation which they received for
their work, encouraged her but little, when she thought of obtaining
something to do in the same way. But the more she thought of other
means, the less she found herself fitted for doing anything else,
and at last determined to learn how to make common pantaloons, that
she might have some resource to fly to, when all others failed. She
found her kind neighbours ready to give her all the instruction she
needed, and they also kindly offered to introduce her to the shops
whenever she should determine to take in work. It did not take her
long to learn, and soon after she had acquired the art, as her
husband's health still continued to decline, she began, in odd
times, to make common pantaloons and vests, for which she received
the meagre compensation of twelve-and-a-half cents each. It took her
about one-half of her time, actively engaged, to attend to her
family.
During the remaining half of each day and evening, she would make a
vest or a pair of pantaloons, which at the end of the week would
bring her in seventy-five cents. When she looked at this small sum,
the aggregate of a week's labour, during leisure from the concerns
of her family, she felt but little encouraged in prospect of having
the whole of her little family dependent upon her; and for some
weeks she entertained, in the silence of her own heart, a sickening
consciousness of coming destitution, which she might in vain
endeavour to prevent. Gradually her mind reacted from this painful
state, and she gave daily diligence to her employments, entertaining
a firm trust in Divine Providence.
As the spring opened, her husband's health revived a little, and he
found employment at a small compensation in a retail dry-goods
store. This just suited his strength and the state of his health,
and he continued at it for something like three years. During this
period nothing of material interest occurred, and we pass it over in
silence.
The long-looked-for, long-dreaded time, when Wilmer's health should
entirely give way, at length came; and although through the kindness
of his employers he had been retained in the store long after he was
able to do his full duty, yet at last he had to give up.
It would require a pen more skilled to portray the workings of the
human heart, than mine, to sketch his real feelings, when he
received his last month's wages; the last that he felt he would ever
earn for his family, and turned his steps homeward. He loved the
wife who had forsaken the wealth and comfort of a father's house,
and had been all in all to him through sunshine and storm, with deep
and tearful affection; he would have sacrificed everything for her;
and yet for years had he been compelled to see her toil for a
portion of the bread that nourished her and her children. He loved
his little ones, with a yearning tenderness; the more fervently and
passionately, now that he could no longer minister to their wants.
How could he meet them all on this evening, and see their dear faces
brighten up on his entrance, when he could no longer earn them food,
or provide them with comforts? It was with a strong effort that he
kept down his feelings. as he entered his home, now comprised in two
rooms in the second story of an old house in Commerce street, where
they had removed, to be nearer his place of business, the long walk
having been too fatiguing for him, after standing behind the counter
all day.
Mrs. Wilmer's quick eye at once detected a change in the expression
of her husband's countenance, but she said nothing. After tea, the
children were all put to bed in the next room, and they were then
alone. Wilmer sat in deep thought by the table, shading his face
with his sand when his wife came in from the chamber where she had
been with the children. Twining her arm round his neck, she bent
over him, and said, in a tone of tender concern--
"Why so thoughtful, Theodore?"
He did not reply for some moments, nor lift his head, and Constance
was about to repeat her question in a more earnest voice, when a hot
tear fell upon her hand. She had seen him often sorely tried and
painfully exercised, but had never known him to shed a tear. There
had always been a troubled silence in his manner when difficulties
pressed upon him, but tears moistened not his eyes. Well might her
heart sink down in her bosom at that strange token of intense
suffering.
"Dear Theodore!" she said, in a changed tone, "tell me what it is
that troubles you!"
A shuddering sob was the only reply, as he leaned his head back upon
her bosom.
"Say, dearest, what has happened?"
The tears now fell from his eyes like rain, and sob after sob shook
his frame convulsively.
Constance waited in silence until the agitation subsided, and then
gently urged him to tell her what it was that troubled him so
painfully.
"I am broken in spirits now, Constance. I am a weak child. I have
received the last blow, and manhood has altogether forsaken me."
"Tell me! oh, tell me! Theodore, all, all! Do not distress me by
further silence, or mystery!"
A pause of some minutes succeeded, during which Wilmer was making
strong efforts to overcome his feelings.
"Constance," he at length said, mournfully, "I have tried long, and
much beyond my strength, to earn the small sum that it took to
support our little ones; but nature has at last given way. Here is
the last dollar I shall probably ever earn, and now I shall be a
burden upon you, eating the bread of my children, while they, poor
things, will hunger for the morsel that nourishes me. I do not
wonder that manly feelings have passed away with my strength.
Constance, what shall we do?"
An angel of comfort is woman to life's last extremity.
Fragile as a reed, that bends to the passing breeze, when the
sunshine of prosperity is bright above and around, she becomes the
tall oak, deep-rooted and strong-branched, when the wintry storms of
adversity sweep over the earth. No trial subdues her, no privation
brings a murmur of discontent. She will hope to the last, and still
have a smile of assurance for those who, in their despondency, have
even cast away hope. Constance Wilmer was a woman, and as a woman,
her worth was felt more and more, as troubles came thicker and
faster.
"Dear husband!" she said, in a steady and cheerful voice, "you have
forgotten that line, so true and so comforting--"'Despair is never
quite despair'--
"I see no cause for such painful feelings. Pinching want is not upon
us yet, and I am sure the time will never come when our children
shall ask food at our hands in. vain. Trial, which is always for our
good, will never reach beyond the point of endurance."
"The burden is all upon you, Constance. Heaven grant that you may
have strength to bear it!"
"I fear not for the strength. That will come in due time. Now we
have food and raiment, and therewith let us be content. If God so
clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is
cast into the oven, will he not clothe us? He that feedeth the young
ravens when they cry, will not turn away from us. Are we not of more
value than many sparrows?"
"Bless you! bless you! Constance."
"Do not, then, dear husband! cast away your confidence. If the
burden is to be all upon me, it will be lightened by your cheerful
countenance and encouraging words. I shall need them both,
doubtless; then do not withhold them."
Her voice lost its steadiness, trembled a moment, and then she hid
her face, in silence and in tears, upon his bosom.
As Wilmer had foreseen, the strength for further labour was gone for
ever. He lingered about for a few weeks, and then took to his bed.
And now came the time for the full trial of Mrs. Wilmer's mental and
bodily strength.
Notwithstanding all her close application at the needle, the small
sum that had been saved from former earnings, slowly, but steadily
diminished. Daily she increased her exertions, and encroached
further upon the hours of rest; but still there was a steady
withdrawal of the hoarded treasure. At first, her confidence in the
Divine Providence was measurably shaken; but soon the wavering
needle of her faith turned steadily to its polar star. Her own
health, never vigorous, began also to give way under the increased
application which became necessary for the support of the beloved
ones, now entirely dependent upon her labour for food and raiment.
Her appetite, never very good, failed considerably, and consequently
there was a withdrawal instead of an increase of strength. But none
knew of her pain or weakness. Her pale face was ever a cheerful one,
and her voice full of tenderness.
When the next spring opened, Wilmer was not only confined to the
house, but unable to sit up, except for a few hours at a time
through the day. His wife's health had suffered much, and all the
hours she sat at her needle, were hours of painful endurance. Spring
passed away, and summer came. But the milder airs had no kind effect
upon the fast sinking frame of her husband. He was rapidly going
down to the grave, his last hours embittered by the sight of his
wife and children suffering before him.
During the month of August, Wilmer declined so fast, and needed such
constant attention, that his wife could find but little time to
devote to her needle. What she thus lost in the day-time, she had to
make up, as far as possible, by encroaching upon the night hours,
and often the lamp by her side would grow dim before the light of
day, while she still bent in weariness and pain, over the work that
was to give bread to her children.
For some months her work had been confined to one shop, the master
of which was not always punctual in paying her the pittance she
earned. Instead of handing her, whenever she called, the trifle due
her, he made her procure a little book in which he would enter the
work, promising to pay when it would amount to a certain sum. In
anxious hope would Mrs. Wilmer wait until her earnings rose to the
required amount; but not always then could she get her due; there
would too frequently be a part payment, or a request to call in a
day or two.
One day towards the first of September, she found that both food and
money were out. She was just finishing a couple of vests for the
clothing-shop, and there were more than three dollars due to her.
While turning over in her own mind the hope that Mr.--would pay
her the small sum due, when she carried in the work, and troubled
the While with fears lest he should deny her, as he had often done
before; her husband, whose bright eye had been upon her for some
time, and whose countenance, unseen by her, had expressed an
earnest, yet hesitating desire to ask for something, said--
"Constance, I don't know whether you are able to get them, but if
you can, I should like, above all things, to have some grapes."
"Then you shall have some," Constance replied, earnestly and
affectionately. "I am sure they will help you. Why did I not think
of this for you long ago?"
Resuming her needle, she plied it with double swiftness, her heart
trembling lest when she asked for her money at the shop, it should
be refused her. At last the work was done and she carried it in. It
was entered, and her book handed back to her. She paused a moment,
then turned to go out, but she could not go home without some money.
Hesitatingly she asked to have her due, but it was refused on some
excuse of having a large payment to make on that very day. Again she
turned to go, but again turned to ask for only a part of what was
her own. One dollar was thrown her with an unkind remark. The first
she seized with avidity, the last passed her ear unheeded.
How swiftly did she hurry home with her little treasure! more
precious than a hundred times the sum had ever been before. It was
to meet the first expressed want of her husband, to gratify which
she would herself have abstained days from food.
The grapes were soon obtained, with some bread, and a small portion
of meat, for the children. They proved very grateful and refreshing
to Wilmer, who, soon after he had eaten a few of them, fell into a
gentle sleep.
The food which Mrs. Wilmer had bought would last them probably about
two days--not longer. Two months' rent would be due in a week,
amounting to eight dollars. Their landlord had threatened to take
some of their things to satisfy the last months' rent, and she had
little hope of his being put off longer than the expiration of the
two months. There were still two-and-a-half dollars due her by the
keeper of the clothing-store, which she knew it would be almost as
hard to get as to earn.
Not disposed, however, to sit down and brood over her difficulties,
which only made them worse, she went to work in the best spirit
possible to overcome them. She obtained more work, and bent herself
again over her daily employment.
She was sitting with an aching head and troubled heart at her work
on the next morning, having only sought a brief repose through the
night, when a smart tap at the door roused her from her abstraction
of mind.
"Does Mrs. Wilmer live here, ma'am?" asked a man.
"That is my name."
"Then I am directed to leave this basket,"--and the man deposited
his burden on the floor, and was gone before another word could be
spoken.
Mrs. Wilmer stood for a moment in mute surprise, and then removed
the covering off the basket. It contained tea, coffee, sugar, rice,
meat, bread, and various other articles of food; and also, a letter
directed to "Constance Wilmer." She broke the seal with an anxious
and trembling heart. It contained a fifty dollar note, and these
brief words:--
"_Put by your work--you are cared for--there is help coming, and now
very nigh--be of good cheer!_"
The coarse garment she still held in her hand, fell to the floor.
Her fingers released themselves from it by an instinctive effort
which she could not control. Her head reeled for a moment, and she
sunk into a chair, overcome by a tumult of contending feelings. From
this, she was aroused by the voice of her husband, who anxiously
inquired the contents of the letter. He read it, and saw the
enclosure, and the supply of food in the basket, and then clasped
his hands and looked up with mute thankfulness to heaven. Mrs.
Wilmer obeyed, with a confidence for which she could not account,
the injunction of her stranger-friend, and almost hourly for the
first day referred to the characters of the letter, which seemed
familiar to her eye. That she had seen the writing before, she was
certain; but where, or when, she could not tell.
Relieved from daily care and toil, she had more time to give to her
sick husband. She found him nearer the grave than she had supposed.
Four days more passed away, and Wilmer had come down to the very
brink of the dark river of death.
It was night. The two younger children were asleep, and the oldest
boy, just in his tenth year, with his mother, stood anxiously over
the low bed, upon which lay, gasping for breath, the dying husband
and father. The widow, who cannot forget the dear image of her
departed one; the orphan, who remembers the dying agony of a fond
father, can realize in a great degree the sorrows which pressed upon
the hearts of these lone watchers by the bed of death.
The last hours of Wilmer's life were hours of distinct
consciousness.
"Constance," he whispered, in a low difficult whisper, while his
bright eyes were fixed upon her face--"Constance, what will you do
when I am gone? I am but a burden on you now; but my presence I feel
is something."
His stricken-hearted wife could make no answer; but the tears rolled
over her face in great drops, and fell fast upon the pillow of her
dying husband.
"I cannot say, 'do not weep,'" continued Wilmer. "O that I could
give a word of comfort! but your cup is full, running over, and I
cannot dash it from your lips:--Dear Constance! you have been to me
a wife and a mother. Let me feel your warm cheek once more against
mine, for it is cold, very cold. Hark! did you not hear voices?" And
he strained his eyes towards the door, half-lifting himself up.
For a few moments he looked eagerly for some one to enter, and then
fell back upon the bed with a heavy sigh, murmuring to himself, in a
low disappointed tone--
"I thought they were coming."
"Who, love?" asked Mrs. Wilmer, eagerly. But her husband did not
seem to hear her question; but lay gasping for breath, the muscles
of his neck and face distorted and giving to his countenance the
ghastly expression of death.
"Who, love?--who were coming?" eagerly asked Mrs. Wilmer again, her
own heart trembling with a recurrence of the vague hopes with which
the mysterious letter and timely supply had inspired her,--hopes
that had never been hinted to her husband. But it seemed that he had
given the incident his own interpretation.
But he heeded not her question. For some time mother and son again
stood over him, in troubled silence. Perhaps half an hour had passed
since he had spoken, when a slight bustle was heard, on the steps
below, and then feet were heard quickly ascending, and hastening
along the passage towards their chamber door.
"They come! They come!" half-shrieked the dying man, springing up in
the bed, and bending over towards the door, which was hastily flung
open. His eyes glared upon the two persons, a man and woman, both
well advanced in life, as they entered. That one anxious gaze was
enough. Looking up into the face of Constance, against whose breast
his head had sunk, his countenance changed into an expression of
intense delight, and he whispered--
"They have come, Constance! they have come. Think of me as at rest
and happy. I die in peace!"
His eye-lids closed naturally--there was no longer any convulsive
play of the muscles, and as an infant sinking into slumber, so
quietly did Theodore Wilmer sleep the sleep of death.
One month from that night of sorrow, the darkest one in the many
gloomy seasons of Mrs. Wilmer's life, might have been seen this
child of many afflictions, with her three little ones, at home in
one of the most pleasant houses in the vicinity of New York. There
was something sad and subdued in the expression of her pale face,
but it was from the recollection of the past. Her mother, who ten
years before had cast her off as unworthy, now gazed upon her with a
look of the intensest affection; and the father, who had sworn never
to call her his child, sat holding her thin white hand in his, and
listening to her first recital of all she had passed through since
she left the home of her childhood, while the tears fell from his
eyes in large drops, upon the hand that lay within his own.
THE SISTERS.
[THE following unadorned narrative, the reminiscence of a friend, I
give as if related by him from whom I received it. He was, in early
years, the apprentice of a tradesman, in whose family the principal
incidents occurred. The picture presented is one of every-day life.]
MR. WILLIAMS, to whom, when a boy, I was apprenticed to learn the
art and mystery by which he supported a pretty large family, was not
rich, although, by industry and economy, he had gathered together a
few thousand dollars, and owned, besides, two or three neat little
houses, the aggregate annual rent of which was something like six
hundred dollars. His wife, a weak-minded woman, however, considered
him independent, in regard to wealth, and valued herself
accordingly. Few held their heads higher, or trode the pavement with
a statelier step than Mrs. Williams.
An elder sister, greatly her superior in every quality of mind, had
been far less fortunate in her marriage. She was the wife of a man,
who, instead of increasing his worldly goods, the fruit of some
twenty years' prudence and industry, had become dissipated, and at
the time now referred to, was sinking rapidly, and bearing his
family, of course, down with him. All energy seemed lost, and though
his family was steadily increasing, he grew more and more careless
every day.
He spent much time in taverns, and wasted there a good deal of
money, that his family needed. Mrs. Haller, his wife, was, as has
been said, in intelligence and feeling, much the superior of Mrs.
Williams, but appeared to little advantage in her peculiar
situation. She was the elder sister, by four or five years. At the
time of which I am now writing, Mrs. Haller had five children, two
of them grown up, and the rest small. Her husband had become so
indolent and sottish, that all her exertions were needed to keep her
little flock from suffering with cold and hunger. No woman could
have laboured more untiringly than she did, but it was labouring
against a strong current that bore her little bark slowly, but
surely backward. Here, then, are the two sisters; one, the elder,
and superior in all the endowments of head and heart--the other with
few claims to estimation other than those afforded by a competence
of worldly goods. Let us view them a little closer. Perhaps we can
read a lesson in their mutual conduct that will not soon be
forgotten.
In earlier years, I have learned, that they were much attached to
each other. In their father's house, they knew no cares, and when
they married, which was within a few years of each other, their
prospects were equal for future happiness. While this equality
existed, their intercourse was uninterrupted and affectionate. But,
as Mr. Haller began to neglect his family, the cloud that settled
upon the brow of his poor wife was not pleasant for Mrs. Williams to
look upon. Nor were the complaints that a full heart too often
forced to the lips, at all agreeable to her ears. Naturally proud
and selfish, these two feelings had been gaining strength with the
progress of years, and were now so confirmed, that even towards an
only sister in changed circumstances they remained in full activity.
When I first went to live with Mr. Williams, Mrs. Haller resided in
a neatly furnished, small two-story brick house. Her husband had not
then shown his vagabond propensities very distinctly, though he
spent in his family, and otherwise, all that he earned each week,
thus leaving nothing for a rainy day. He was a little in debt, too,
but not so much as to make him feel uneasy. Mrs. Haller was anxious
to lay up something, and to be getting ahead in the world, and was,
consequently, always troubled because things never got any better.
She came to our house every week, and Mr. Williams would visit her
once in a month or two. Mrs. Haller often talked of her troubles to
her sister, who used then to sympathize with her, and make many
suggestions of means to gender things more accordant with her
desires. As matters gradually grew worse in the progress of time,
and Mrs. Haller began to make rather an indifferent appearance, the
manner of her sister became evidently constrained and
unsympathizing. She began to look upon her in the light of a "poor
relation." Her children, cousins of course to Mrs. Williams's, were
not treated encouragingly when they came to our house, and if
company happened to be there, they were kept out of sight, or sent
home. Mrs. Williams rarely visited Mrs. Haller--not so often as once
in six months.
Long before the period of which I am now writing, Haller had become
drunken and very lazy. Their comfortable house and furniture had
been changed for poor rooms, with little in them, except what was
barely necessary. The oldest child, a son, about nineteen years of
age, on to whose maturity the mother had often looked with a lively
hope, following the example of his father, had become idle and
dissipated; spending most of his time in low taverns and
gambling-shops. Here was a keen sorrow which no heart but a mother's
can understand. Oh, what a darkening of all the dreams of early
years! When a warm-hearted girl, looking into the pleasant future
with a tremulous joy, she stood beside her chosen one at the altar,
how little did she dream of the shadows and darkness that were to
fall upon her path! And alas! how little does many a careless girl,
who gives herself away, thoughtlessly, to a young man of unformed
character, dream of the sorrow too deep for tears that awaits her.
Surely this were anguish enough,--and surely it called for the
sustaining sympathy of friends. But the friend of her early years,
the sister in whose arms, in the days of innocent childhood, she had
slept peacefully, now turned from her coldly, and even repulsively.
So unnatural and revolting seems the picture I am drawing, even in
its dim outlines, that I turn from it myself, half-resolved to leave
it unfinished. But many reasons, stronger than feeling, urge me to
complete my task with the imperfect skill I possess, and I take the
pencil which I had laid down in shame and disgust, and proceed to
fill up more distinctly.
I had observed for some time the growing coolness of Mrs. Williams
towards her unfortunate sister, and had noted more than once the
deep dejection of Mrs. Haller's manner, whenever she went away from
our house. She began to come less and less frequently, and her
children at still more remote intervals. Things became desperate
with her at length, and she came, forced by necessity, to seek a
little aid and comfort in her sorrow from her once kind sister, and
with the faint hope that some relief would be offered. I was sitting
in the neatly furnished breakfast-room, one evening, a little after
tea, reading a book, when Mrs Haller came in. She had on a dark
calico dress, faded, but clean, a rusty shawl that had once been
black, and a bonnet that Mrs. Williams's kitchen-servant would not
have worn. My eye instinctively glanced to the face of Mrs. Williams
as she entered; it had at once contracted into a cold and forbidding
expression. She neither rose from her chair, nor asked Mrs. Haller
to take one, greeting her only with a chilling "well, Sally." The
latter naturally sought a chair, and waited silently, and surely
with an aching heart, for a kinder manifestation of sisterly regard.
I immediately left the room; but learned afterwards enough of the
interview to make it distinct to the imagination of the reader.
The sisters sat silent for some moments, the one vainly trying to
keep down the struggling anguish of a stricken heart, and the other,
half-angry at the intrusion, endeavouring to fashion a form of
greeting that should convey her real impressions, without being
verbally committed. At length the latter said, half-kindly,
half-repulsively:--
"Why, Sally, what has brought you so far from home, after dark?"
"Nothing very particular. Only I thought I would like to drop in a
little while and see how you all did. Besides, little Thomas is
sick, and I wanted to get a few herbs from you, as you always keep
them."
"What kind of herbs do you want?"
"Only a few sprigs of balm, and some woodbitney."
"Kitty"--bawled out this unfeeling woman to the servant in the
kitchen--"go up into the garret and bring me a handful of balm and
woodbitney--and don't stay all night!"
"No, ma'am," said Kitty, thinking the last part of the order most
requiring a reply.
A further pause of a few minutes ensued, when Mrs. Haller, after
almost struggling to keep silence, at length ventured to say, sadly,
and despondingly, that she should have to move again.
"And what, in the name of heaven, Sally, are you going to move again
for? You can't be suited much better."
"Nor much worse, either, Mary. But John has paid no rent, and we
can't stay any longer. The landlord has ordered us to leave by next
Wednesday, or he will throw our few things into the street."
"Well, I declare, there is always something occurring with you to
worry my mind. Why do you constantly harass me with your troubles? I
have enough at home in my own family to perplex me, without being
made to bear your burdens. I never trouble you with my grievances,
or anybody else, and do not think it kind in you to make me feel bad
every time you come here. I declare, I grow nervous whenever I see
you!"
Poor Mrs. Haller, already bending beneath her burden, found this
adding a weight that made it past calm endurance, and she burst into
tears, and sobbed aloud. But not the slightest impression did this
exhibition of sorrow make upon Mrs. Williams. She even reproached
her with unbecoming weakness.
Although her sister had before shown indifference and great
coolness, yet never had she spoken thus unkindly. In a few moments
Mrs. Haller regained her calmness, and with it came back some of her
former pride of feeling. For a moment she sat with her eyes cast
upon the floor, endeavouring to keep down her struggling emotions;
in the next she rose up, and looking her sister fixedly in the face,
read her this impressive lesson.
"Mary, I could not have dreamed of such harshness from you! I have
thought you cold and indifferent, long; but I tried hard to believe
that you were not unkind. I have never come to see you in the last
three years, that I did not go away sad in spirit. There was
something in your manner that seemed to say that you thought my
presence irksome, and as you were the only friend I had to speak to
about my wearying cares and anxieties, it grieved me more than I can
tell to think that that only friend was growing cold--and that
friend a sister! As things have become worse with me, your manner
has grown colder, and now you have spoken out distinctly, and
destroyed the little resting place I sometimes sought when wearied
to faintness. Mary, may God who has afflicted me, grant you a
happier lot in the future! May you never know the anguish of one who
sees a once idolized husband become a brute--her children growing up
worthless under the dreadful example of their father, and all often
wanting food to sustain nature! You have everything you desire. I
have not the necessaries of life. We were born of the same mother,
and nursed at the same bosom. We played together in childhood,--once
I saved your life. And now, because our ways are different; yours
even and flowery, and mine rough and thorny, you turn from me, as
from an importunate beggar. Mary, we shall meet our father and
mother at the bar of God!"
Thus saying, Mrs. Haller turned slowly away, and left the house
before her sister, who was startled at this unexpected appeal, could
sufficiently collect her senses to reply. Her real errand, or,
rather, her principal errand to the house of Mrs. Williams, had been
to ask for some food for her children. It was many weeks since her
husband had contributed a single dollar towards the daily family
expenses, and all the burden of their support devolved upon the wife
and mother. Night and day, in pain, and exhaustion of body and mind,
had she toiled to get food for those who looked up to her, but all
her efforts were inadequate. Like thousands of others, when a girl,
she had acquired an education that was more ornamental than useful.
The consequence was, that she had no ready means of earning money.
The wants of a family of children, had, it is true, given her some
skill with her needle, but not of a kind that would enable her to
earn much by sewing.
She did, however, at first try what she could do by working for the
cheap clothing-stores. But twelve-and-a-half cents a pair for
pantaloons, ten cents for vests, and eight cents for shirts, yielded
so little, that she was driven to something else. That something
else was the washtub; over which, and the ironing-table, she toiled
early and late, often ready to sink to the floor from exhaustion.
Of this, she said nothing to Mrs. Williams, who would have been
terribly mortified at the idea of her sister, taking in washing for
a support. The labour of one pair of hands in the wash-tub, was,
however, unequal to the task of providing food for seven mouths,
even of a very poor quality. Consequently, Mrs. Haller found the
wants of her family pressing, every day, harder and harder upon the
slender means by which they were supplied. Often, when she carried
home her work, there was no food in the house, and often did she
work half the night, so as to be able to take her clothes home early
on the next day, and get the money she had earned to meet that day's
wants.
Among those for whom she washed and ironed, was a woman in good
circumstances, who never paid her anything until she asked for it,
and then the money came with an air of reluctance. Of course, she
applied to her for her hard earnings, only when pressed by
necessity. On the morning before the interview with her sister, just
detailed, Mrs. Haller found herself nearly out of everything, and
with not a cent in the world. The woman just alluded to, owed her
two dollars, and she had nearly completed another week's washing for
her, which would make the amount due her two dollars and a half. At
dinner-time, every mouthful of food, and that a scanty portion, was
consumed, and there would be nothing for supper, or breakfast, on
the next morning, unless Mrs. Hamil should pay her. It was nearly
night when she finished ironing the last piece. Hurriedly putting on
her things, after sending two of her children with the clothes in a
basket, she joined them as they were about entering the dwelling of
Mrs. Hamil.
Her heart beat, audibly to her own ear, as she went in, and asked to
see the woman for whom she had been labouring. Although, heretofore,
whenever she had asked for her money, she had received it, sometimes
with reluctance, it is true, yet her extremity being now so great,
she trembled lest, from some cause, she should not be able to get
the pittance due her.
For a few moments she sat in the kitchen hesitating to ask for Mrs.
Hamil, after the clothes had been given to the servant. When she did
do so, she was told that she was engaged and could not be seen.
"Ask her, then, for me, if you please," she said, "to send me a
dollar. I want it very much."
The servant went up and delivered her message, and in a few moments
came back with the answer, that Mrs. Hamil was engaged, and could
not attend to such matters;--that she could step in on the next day,
and get her money.
The words fell coldly upon her feelings, and oppressed her with a
faint sickness. Then she got up slowly from her chair, hesitated a
moment, took one or two steps towards the door, and then pausing,
said to the servant,
"Go up and tell Mrs. Hamil, that I am sorry to trouble her, but that
I want the money very much, and that if she will send it down to me,
she will confer a very great favour, indeed."
"I had rather not," the servant replied. "She didn't appear pleased
at my going up the first time. And I am sure she will be less
pleased if I go again."
"But you do not know how much I am in want of this money, Jane--"
and the poor woman's voice quivered.
"Well, Mrs. Haller, I will try again," the kind-hearted girl said,
"but I can't promise to be successful. Mrs. Hamil is very queer
sometimes."
In a few minutes Jane returned with a positive refusal. Mrs. Hamil
couldn't and wouldn't be troubled in that way.
In a state of half-conscious, dreamy wretchedness, did Mrs. Haller
turn her steps slowly homewards. The shadows of evening were falling
thickly around, adding a deeper gloom to her feelings.
"O, mother! I'm glad you've come. I'm so hungry!" cried one of her
little ones, springing to her side as she entered. "Won't we have
supper soon, now?"
This was too much for her, and she sank exhausted and almost
fainting into a chair. Tears soon brought temporary relief to an
overburdened heart. Then she soothed her hungry little ones as well
as she could, promising them a good supper before they went to bed.
"But why can't we have it now?" urged one, more impatient, or more
hungry, than the rest.
"Because mother hasn't got any good bread for little Henry--" she
replied--"But she will have some soon. So all be good children, and
wait until mother goes out and gets some bread and meat, and then we
will all have a nice supper."
After quieting the importunities of her children in this way, and
soothing little Thomas, who was sick and fretful, Mrs. Haller again
left them, and bent her steps, with a reluctant spirit, towards the
comfortable dwelling of her sister, nearly a mile away from where
she lived. The interview with that sister has already been given.
When she turned away, as has been seen, empty-handed, from the door
of that sister, it was with feelings that few can imagine. It seemed
to her as if she were forsaken both of earth and heaven. How she got
home, she hardly knew, but when she entered that cheerless place she
found her poor sick child, for whom she had no money to buy
medicine, burning with fever, and crying bitterly. Her brutal
husband was snoring on the bed the smaller children quarrelling
among themselves, and her oldest boy, half-intoxicated, leaning over
the back of a chair, and swinging his body backward and forward in
the (sic) idiotcy of drunkenness. As she entered, the children
crowded round her, asking fretfully for their suppers; but nothing
had she to give them, for she had come away empty-handed and
repulsed from the door of her affluent sister, to whose dwelling she
had gone solely to ask for some food for her children! In the
momentary energy of despair she roused her husband rudely from the
bed, and bade him, in an excited tone, to go and get some bread for
the children: The brute, angered by her words and manner, struck her
a blow upon the head, which brought her senseless to the floor.
An hour at least passed before she recovered her senses; when she
opened her eyes, she found herself on a bed, her sister sitting by
her side, weeping, and Mr. Williams standing over her. Her husband
was not there, some of the children were crying about the room, and
others had fallen asleep on the floor. The oldest boy was sitting in
the position before-mentioned. Brief explanations were made, and
Mrs. Williams offered a faint apology for her harsh treatment. The
appeal of her sister had touched her feelings, and she had proposed
to Mr. Williams to go over and see her. On entering her dwelling
they found her senseless on the floor, and the children screaming
around her. The husband was not there.
As soon as the mother's voice was heard by the smallest child, a
little girl, she climbed up the side of the bed, and simply, and
earnestly, in lisping tones, asked for a "piece of bread." The poor
woman burst into tears, and turned her head away from her child.
Mrs. Williams went to the closet, saying--"Come, Emma, I will get
you some bread. "The little thing was at her side in a moment. But
the search there was in vain.
"Where is the bread, Sally?" she asked.
"There is none in the house," faintly murmured the almost
broken-hearted mother.
"Good heavens!" said Mr. Williams--"you are not without food,
surely?"
"We have tasted nothing to-day," was the startling reply.
"Where is Mr. Haller?"
"I know not--he left the house a short time ago."
"He ran out when he struck you, mother," spoke up the little child
who had asked for the bread.
Mr. and Mrs. Williams looked at each other for some moments in
silence.
"Get a basket and come with me, John," said Mr. Williams, to the
oldest boy, who was gazing on with indifference or stupidity.
Mechanically he took a basket and followed his uncle. They soon
returned with bread, dried meat, ham, &c., and in a brief space, a
comfortable meal was prepared for the starving family.
Conscience felt about the heart of Mrs. Williams that night, with
touches of pain, and she repented of her cruel neglect, and unkind
treatment of her sister. She dreamed not of the extent of her
destitution and misery--simply, because she had refused to make
herself acquainted with her real condition. Now that the sad reality
had been forced upon her almost unwilling eyes, a few returning
impulses of nature demanded relief for her suffering sister.
Mr. Williams, whose benevolent feelings were easily excited, was
shocked at the scene before him, and blamed himself severely for not
having earlier become acquainted with Mrs. Haller's condition. He
immediately set about devising means of relief. Haller had become so
worthless that he despaired of making him do anything for his
family. He therefore invited his sister-in-law to come home to our
house, and bring her two youngest girls with her. The rest were
provided with places. The family had grown pretty large, and she
could assist in sewing, &c., and thus render a service, and live
comfortably. Mrs. Williams seconded the proposition, though not with
much cordiality; she could not, however, make any objections.
We look at the sisters now in a different relation. The superior in
dependence on the inferior. Can any for a moment question the
result?
It was not without a struggle that poor Mrs. Haller consented to
disband her little family--and virtually to divorce herself from her
husband. No matter how cruel the latter had been, nor how deplorable
the condition of the former, her heart still retained its household
affections, and would not consent willingly to have her little flock
scattered-perhaps for ever. But stern necessity knows no law. In due
time, with little Emma, and Emily, Mrs. Haller was assigned a
comfortable room over the kitchen, and became a member of our
family. All of us in the shop felt for her a warm interest, but
hesitated not to express among ourselves a regret that she could do
no better than to trust herself and little ones to the tender
mercies of a sister, whom we knew too well to respect.
At first, Mrs. Haller was employed in needle-work, but as she was
neither a very fast nor neat sewer, her sister soon found it better
policy to let her do the chamber-work, and sometimes assist in
cooking. For about three months, her situation was comfortable,
except that her children were required to act "just so," and were
driven about and scolded if they ventured to amuse themselves in the
yard, or anywhere in the sight or hearing of their aunt. Her own
children were indulged in almost everything, but her little nieces
were required to be as staid and circumspect as grown-up women.
After about six months had elapsed, Mrs. Williams began to find
fault with her sister for various trifles, and to be petulant and
unkind in manner towards her. This thing was not done right, and the
other thing was neglected. If she sat down for half an hour to sew
for herself or children, something would be said or hinted to wound
her, and make her feel that she was viewed by her sister in no other
light than that of a hired servant.
Something occurring to make the kitchen-servant leave her place,
Mrs. Haller cooked and attended in her situation until another could
be obtained. There was, however, no effort made to procure another;
week after week passed away, and still all the menial employments of
the house and the hard duties of the kitchen fell upon Mrs. Haller.
From her place at the first table, where she sat for a short time
after she came into the house, she was assigned one with us. To all
these changes she was not indifferent. She felt them keenly. But
what could she do? Unfortunately for her, she had been so raised (as
too many of our poor, proud, fashionable girls are now raised) as to
be almost helpless when thrown upon her own resources. She was
industrious, and saving; but understood nothing about getting a
living. Therefore, she felt that endurance was her only present
course. It was grievous to the heart to be trampled upon by a sister
whose condition was above her's; but as that sister had offered her
an (sic) assylum, when in the utmost destitution, she resolved to
bear patiently the burden she imposed upon her.
It was now tacitly understood between the sisters that Sally was to
be kitchen-servant to the other. And as a servant she was treated.
When company were at the house, she was not to know them or sit down
in the parlour with them. Her little ones were required to keep
themselves out of the family sitting-room, and Mrs. Williams's
children taught, not by words, but by actions, to look upon them as
inferiors. From confinement, and being constantly checked in the
outburst of their feelings, they soon began to look much worse than
they did when first taken from their comfortless abode. The
youngest, a quiet child, might usually be found sitting on a little
stool by her mother in the kitchen, playing with some trifling toy;
but the other was a wild little witch, who was determined to obey no
arbitrary laws of her aunt's enacting. There was no part of the
house that she did not consider neutral ground. Now she would be
playing with her little cousins in the breakfast-room, or in some of
the chambers, and now clambering over the shop-board among the boys
and journeymen. All liked her but Mrs. Williams, and to her she was
a thorn in the flesh, because she set at defiance all her
restrictions. This was a cause of much trouble to Mrs. Haller, who
saw that the final result would be a separation from one or both of
her children. The only reason that weighed with her and caused her
to remain in her unpleasant and degraded situation, was the ardent
desire she felt to keep her two youngest children with her. She
could not trust them to the tender mercies of strangers. Deep
distress and abject poverty had not blunted a single maternal
feeling, and her heart yearned for her babes with an increased
anxiety and tenderness as the chances every day appeared less in
favour of her retaining them with her. One had nearly grown up, and
was a sorrow and an anguish to her heart. Two others, quite young,
were bound out, and but one of them had found a kind guardian. And
now, one of the two that remained she feared would have to be
removed from her.
One day, her sister called her into the sitting-room, where she
found a lady of no very prepossessing appearance.
"Sally," said she, "this is Mrs. Tompkins. She has seen Emily, and
would like to have her very much. You, of course, have no objections
to getting so good a place for Emily. How soon can you get her ready
to go? Mrs. Tompkins would like to have her by the first of next
week."
Thus, without a moment's warning, the dreaded blow fell upon her.
She murmured a faint assent, named an early day, and retired. She
could not resist the will of her sister, for she was a dependant.
In the disposition of other people's children, we can be governed by
what we call rational considerations; but when called upon to part
with our own helpless offspring, how differently do we estimate
circumstances! Every day we hear some one saying, "Why don't she put
out her children?"--and, "Why don't she put out her children? They
will be much better off." And perhaps these children are but eight,
nine, and ten years old. Mother! father! whoever you may be, imagine
your own children, of that tender age, among strangers as servants
(for that is the capacity of children who are thus put out) required
to be, in all respects, as prudent, as industrious, as renouncing of
little recreations and pleasures as men and women, and subject to
severe punishments for all childish faults and weaknesses, such as
you would have borne with and gently corrected. Don't draw parallels
between your own and poor people's children, as if they were to be
less regarded than yours. Even as your heart yearns over and loves
with unspeakable tenderness your offspring, does the mother, no
matter how poor her condition, yearn over and love her children--and
when they are removed from under her protecting wing, she feels as
keen a sorrow as would rend your heart, were the children of your
tenderest care and fondest love, taken from you and placed among
strangers.
In due time, Emily was put out to Mrs. Tompkins, a woman who had
wonderful fine notions about rearing up children so as to make men
and women of them, (than her own, there were not a more graceless
set in the whole city.) She had never been able to carry into full
practice her admirable theories in regard to the education of
children among her own hopefuls; because--first: Johnny was a very
delicate boy, and to have governed him by strict rules, would have
been to have ruined his constitution. She had never dared to break
him of screaming by conquering him, in a single instance, because
the rupture of a blood-vessel would doubtless have been the
consequence, or a fit in which he might have died. Once indeed she
did try to force him to give up his will, but he grew black in the
face from passion, and she had hard work to recover him--after this
he was humoured in everything. And Tommy was a high-spirited and
generous fellow, and it would have been a pity to warp his fine
disposition. Years of discretion would make him a splendid specimen
of perfect manhood. Angelina, (a forward, pert little minx,) was,
from her birth, so gentle, so amiable, so affectionate, that no
government was necessary--and Victorine was so naturally
high-tempered, that her mother guarded against the developement of
anger by never allowing her to be crossed in anything.
In Emily, Mrs. Tompkins supposed she had found a fine subject on
which to demonstrate her theories. A wilful, spoiled child, she was,
eleven years of age, and needed curbing, and in a few days Mrs.
Tompkins found it necessary to exercise her prerogative. Emily was,
of course, put right to work, so soon as she came into the house.
Her first employment was to sweep up the breakfast-room, after the
maid had removed the breakfast-things and placed back the table. She
had never handled a broom, and was, of course, very awkward. With
this awkwardness, Mrs. Tompkins had no patience, and once or twice
took the broom from her hand, and directed her how to hold and use
it, in a high tone, and half-angry manner. In due course she got
through this duty; and then was directed to rock the cradle, while
Mrs. Tompkins went through her chamber and made herself look a
little tidy. Sitting still a whole hour was a terrible trial to
Emily's patience, but she made out to stick at her post until Mrs.
Tompkins re-appeared. She was then sent into the cellar to bring up
three or four armfuls of wood, and immediately after to the grocer's
for a pound of soap, then to the milliner's with a band-box. When
she returned, it was about eleven o'clock, and she was set to help
one of the servants wash the windows, which were taken out of the
frames and washed in the yard. This occupied until twelve. Then she
must rock the cradle again, which she did until one o'clock, when it
waked, and she had to sit on a little chair and hold it, while the
family dined. Her own dinner was afterwards put on a plate, and she
made to stand by the kitchen-table and eat it. All the afternoon was
taken up in some employment or other, and as soon as supper was over
(which she eat, as before, standing at the kitchen-table) she was
sent to bed--and glad she was to get there, for she was so tired she
could hardly stand up.
The next day passed in the same unrelaxing round of duties, and the
third commenced in a similar way. The little thing had by this time
become almost sick from such constant confinement and extra labour
for one of her strength. She was set, on this day, to scrub down a
pair of back stairs, a task to which she was unequal. Before she had
got down to the third step, she accidentally upset the basin and
flooded the whole stair-case--dashing the dirty-water in the face of
Mrs. Tompkins who was just coming up. She was a good deal
frightened, for Mrs. Tompkins had shown so much anger towards her on
different occasions in the last three days, and had once threatened
to correct her, that she feared punishment would follow the
accident. A slight box on the ear was indeed administered. Trembling
from head to foot with fear, and weakness, for the child was by no
means well, she brought up another basin of water, and commenced
scouring the steps again. By some strange fatality, the basin was
again upset, and unfortunately fell in the face of Mrs. Tompkins
again. A cruel chastisement followed, with a set of leather thongs,
upon the poor child's bare back and shoulders.
That night the child came home to her mother, and gave a history of
her treatment. Her lacerated back was sufficient evidence how
cruelly she had been punished. The little thing was in a high fever,
and moaned and talked in her sleep all night.
Finding that the child was not sent back in the morning, Mrs.
Williams wished to know the reason, and was told the real condition
of Emily.
"She's a bad child, Sally, and has no doubt deserved a whipping! You
have spoiled your older children by mistaken kindness, and will
spoil the rest. But I can tell you very distinctly that I am not
going to be a party in this matter, and will not consent that Emily
stay here any longer. So, if you don't send her back to Mrs.
Tompkins, you may get her a place somewhere else, for after this
week she shall not stay here. She has almost ruined my Clara, now!"
To this, poor Mrs. Haller made no reply. Her home at our house had
only been endured because there she thought she could keep her babes
with her. She left the presence of her unfeeling sister, and began
to study how she could manage to support herself and two children by
her own unaided exertions. Many plans were suggested to her mind,
but none seemed to promise success. At length she resolved to rent a
small room, and put into it a bed, a table, and a few chairs, with
some other necessary articles which she still had, and then buy some
kind of vegetables with about five dollars that were due her, and go
to market as a huckster! Let not the sentimental and romantic turn
away in disgust. When humanity is reduced to a last resource, be it
what it may, the heart endures pains, and doubts, and fears of a
like character, whether the resource be that offered to a noble
lady, or a lonely widow.
Before Saturday night, Mrs. Haller had found a room near the market
that just suited her, which she rented at two dollars a month with
the use of the cellar. When she made known to Mrs. Williams her
intention of leaving her house, and told her how she intended to
make a living, the latter was almost speechless with surprise.
"Surely, Sally," said she, "you cannot be in earnest?"
"Indeed I am in earnest, though?"
"But consider the disgrace it will be to your family."
"Nothing is disgraceful that is honest."
"I never will consent to your being a huckster:--Sally! if you do so
disgrace yourself as to stand in the market and sell potatoes and
cabbages, I will disown you! You have a comfortable home here, and
where then is the use of your exposing yourself in the
market-house?"
"You will not let Emily stay here with me, and I cannot part with my
poor babes." A flood of tears burst forth, even though she struggled
hard to conceal them.
"You are very weak and foolish, Sally. Emily will be much better
off, away from you. She is growing up a spoiled child, and needs
other care than yours. You are too indulgent."
"In any case, Mary, I am determined to keep these children with me.
I know that it is not pleasant for you to have them here, and I
don't want to have them in your way. The best thing I can do is that
which I have determined on."
"If you will go, why not take in sewing, or washing and ironing?"
"Simply, because I cannot make a living with my needle, and my
health will not permit me to stand over the wash-tub from morning
till night. There is no resource left me but the market-house,
reluctantly as I go there."
"Well, Sally, you can do as you please. But let me tell you, that if
you do turn huckster, I will never own you as my sister again."
"Any such foolish and rash resolution on your part, I should regret
very much; for, unkindly and unfeelingly as you have acted towards
me, I have no wish to dissolve the tie of nature."
"It shall be dissolved, you may rely upon it, if you do so
disgraceful a thing."
On Saturday she got what was due to her, and on Monday removed to
her new abode. Of all this, Mr. Williams had not the slightest
knowledge. After getting her room fixed up, she went down to the
wharf and bought a few bushels of potatoes, and some apples: with
these she went to the market. Her feelings in thus exposing herself,
can only be imagined by such as have had to resort to a similar
method of obtaining a livelihood, when they first appeared in the
market-house. She had not been long at her stand, when Mr. Williams,
who generally went to market, came unexpectedly upon her.
"Why, Sally, what in the world are you doing here?" was his
surprised salutation.
"Why, didn't you know that I had left your house for the
market-house?"
"No! How should I know You never told me that you were going.
"But surely sister did?"
"Indeed she did not."
"She knew last week that I was going, and that I had determined to
make a living for myself and children in this way."
"I am sorry you left our house, Sally! You should have had a home
there as long as I lived. You must not stay here, anyhow. Something
better can be done for you. Surely you and Mary have not
quarrelled?"
"She has renounced me for ever!"
Mr. Williams was a good deal shocked by this unexpected interview,
and when he went home inquired into the state of affairs. He
censured his wife severely for her part in the matter, upon her own
statement; and told her plainly that she had not treated Sally as a
sister should have been treated. He went to see Mrs. Haller that
day, and used many arguments to induce her to come back, or at least
to give up her newly-adopted calling.
"Put me in a better and more comfortable way of making a living, Mr.
Williams," was her answer--"and I will most gladly adopt it. I know
of no other that will suit me. I cannot longer remain dependent. In
your house I was dependent, and daily and hourly I was made to feel
that dependence, in the most galling manner."
By her first day's efforts in the market-house, Mrs. Haller earned
three-quarters of a dollar, with which she bought food for herself
and children, and re-invested the original amount. On the next day,
as on the first, she disposed of her whole stock, and was so
fortunate in her sales as to clear one dollar. On the next day she
did not sell more than half of her little stock, and cleared only
thirty-seven-and-a-half cents on that. Greatly discouraged she went
home at twelve o'clock, and was still further cast down at finding
her husband there, come to take up his lodgings, and eat up her
meagre earnings from her children. She remonstrated against his
coming back, but with drunken oath and cruel threats he let her know
that he should stay there in spite of her. Before night, her oldest
son, a worthless vagabond, also made his appearance, and between
them swept off all the food, that she had bought with the profits on
her five dollars, which she had resolved from the first not to
break. On the next morning she cleared a full dollar, and on
Saturday, another. But her increased family prevented her adding a
cent of the profits to her original capital. After the market on
Saturday morning, she went out and bought about three dollars worth
of eggs, at ten cents a dozen, which, before night, she sold at
twelve-and-a-half cents, thus clearing twenty-five cents on the
dollar, or three-quarters of a dollar in all. With a dollar and
three-quarters that she had made that day, she laid in a supply of
common and substantial food.
On Sunday she went, as was her custom, to church, and took her two
little girls with her. Her husband and son remained at home. When
she returned from service they were gone; instinctively turning to
where she had concealed her little treasure, of five dollars, she
found that it had also disappeared! She knew well how to account for
its loss. Her husband and son had robbed her! The little hope that
had animated her breast for the last few days, gave way, and she
sunk down into a condition of mind that was almost despair. Towards
evening, her husband and son came home drunk, and lay all night
stupid. In the morning, they stole off by day-light, and she was
left alone with her little ones, to brood over her melancholy
prospect. She could not, of course, go to market, for she had
nothing to sell, nor anything with which to purchase a little stock.
Mr. Williams, who felt a lively interest in her case, especially on
account of the unkind treatment she had received from his wife, used
to stop and inquire into her prospects whenever he saw her in the
market, and had been looking round for something better for her to
do. Missing her this morning, he went to her house, and there found
her in a state of complete despondency. He encouraged her in the
best way he could, but did not advance her another little capital,
which he would willingly have done under other circumstances, and
then went away, determined to get her some situation which would be
more suitable for one of her habits and feelings.
Not an hour after he learned that a head nurse was much wanted at
the alms-house. He made immediate application for her, and was happy
in securing the place. It was at once offered to her, and she
accepted it with gladness, especially as she would be allowed to
bring her two children with her. In due time, she removed to her new
abode, and soon won the good-will and kind consideration of the
Board of Trustees, and the affectionate regards of those to whose
afflictions she was called to minister. Her two little girls were
educated at the alms-house school, and grew up amiable, intelligent,
and industrious. Of her other children, I never knew much.
Mrs. Williams seemed to think the situation of her sister at the
alms-house, almost as disgraceful as her place in the market. She
never renewed a communication with her. Even up to the hour when
Mrs. Haller was called to her final account, which was many years
after, her sister neither saw nor spoke to her.
THE MAIDEN'S ERROR.
THE story of Julia Forrester is but a revelation of what occurs
every day. I draw aside the veil for a moment, would that some one
might gaze with trembling on the picture, and be saved!
The father of Julia had served an apprenticeship to the tanning and
currying business. He had been taken when an orphan boy of twelve
years old, by a man in this trade, and raised by him, without any of
the benefits of education. At twenty-one he could read and write a
little, but had no taste for improving his mind. His master, being
well pleased with him for his industry and sobriety, offered him a
small interest in his business, shortly after he was free, which
soon enabled him to marry, and settle himself in life.
His new companion was the daughter of a reduced tradesman; she had
high notions of gentility, but possessed more vanity and love of
admiration than good sense. Neither of them could comprehend the
true relation of parents. If they fed their children well, clothed
them well, and sent them to the most reputable schools, they
imagined that they had, in part, discharged their duty; and, wholly,
when they had obtained good-looking and well-dressed husbands for
their daughters. This may be a little exaggerated; but such an
inference might readily have been drawn by one who attentively
considered their actions.
I shall not spend further time in considering their characters.
Their counterpart may be found in every street, and in every
neighbourhood. The curious student of human nature can study them at
will. Julia Forrester was the child of such parents. When she was
fifteen, they were in easy circumstances. But at that critical
period of their daughter's life, they were ignorant of human nature,
and entirely unskilled in the means of detecting false pretension,
or discovering true merit.
Indeed, they were much more ready to consider the former as true,
and the latter as false. The unpretending modesty of real worth they
generally mistook for imbecility, or a consciousness of questionable
points of character; while bold-faced assurance was thought to be an
open exhibition of manliness--the free, undisguised manner of those
who had nothing to conceal.
It is rarely that a girl of Julia's age, but little over fifteen,
possesses much insight into character. It was enough for her that
her parents invited young men to the house, or permitted them to
visit her. Her favour, or dislike, was founded upon mere impulse, or
the caprice of first impressions. Among her earliest visitors, was a
young man of twenty-two, clerk in a dry-goods' store. He had an
open, prepossessing manner, but had indulged in vicious habits for
many years, and was thoroughly unprincipled. His name I will call
Warburton. Another visitor was a modest, sensible young man, also
clerk in another dry-goods' store. He was correct in all his habits,
and inclined to be religious. He had no particular end in view in
visiting at Forrester's, more than to mingle in society. Still, as
he continued his visits, he began to grow fond of Julia,
notwithstanding her extreme youth. The fact was, she had shot up
suddenly into a graceful woman; and her manners were really
attractive. Little could be gleaned, however, in her society, or in
that of but few who visited her, from the current chit-chat. It was
all chaffy stuff,--mere small-talk. Let me introduce the reader to
their more particular acquaintance. There is assembled at Mr.
Forrester's a gay social party, such as met there almost every week.
It is in the summer time. The windows are thrown open, and the
passers-by can look in upon the light-hearted group, at will.
Warburton and Julia are trifling in conversation, and the others are
wasting. the moments as frivolously as possible. We will join them
without ceremony.
"A more beautiful ring than this on your finger, I have never seen.
Do you know why a ring is used in marriage?"
"La! no, Mr. Warburton. Do tell me."
"Why, because it is an emblem of love, which has neither beginning
nor end."
"And how will you make that out, Sir Oracle? ha! ha!"
"Why as plain as a pike-staff. True love has no beginning; for those
who are to be married love each other before they meet. And it
cannot have an end. So you see that a ring is the emblem of love."
"That's an odd notion; where did you pick it up?"
"I picked it up nowhere. It is a cherished opinion of my own, and I
believe in it as firmly as some of the Jews of old did in the
transmigration of souls."
"You are a queer body."
"Yes, I _have_ got some queer notions; so people say: but I think I
am right, and those who don't agree with me, wrong. A mere
difference of opinion, however. All things are matters of opinion.
Aint it so, Perkins?" addressing the young man before alluded to.
"What were you talking about?"
"Why, I was just saying to Julia that all different ideas
entertained by different persons, were differences of opinion
merely."
"Do you mean to say, that there is no such thing as truth, or
error?"
"I do--in the abstract."
"Then we differ, of course--and as it would be, according to your
estimation, a mere difference of opinion, no argument on the subject
would be in place here."
"Of course not," replied Warburton, rather coolly, and dropped the
subject. Julia _almost_ saw that Warburton had made himself appear
foolish in the eyes of the dull, insipid Perkins--but her mental
vision was closed up as firmly as ever, in a moment.
A loud burst of laughter from a group at the other end of the room,
drew the attention of the company, who flocked to the scene of
mirth, and soon all were chattering and laughing in a wild and
incoherent manner, so loud as to attract the notice of persons in
the street.
"Ha! he! he!" laughed a young lady, hysterically, sinking into a
chair, with her handkerchief to her mouth--"what a droll body!"
"He-a, he-a, he-o-o-o," more boisterously roared out a fun-loving
chap, who knew more about good living than good manners. And so the
laugh passed round. The cause of all this uproar, was a merry
fellow, who had made a rabbit out of one of the girl's
handkerchiefs, and was springing it from his hand against the wall.
He seemed to have a fair appreciation of the character of his
associates for the evening; and though himself perfectly competent
to behave well in the best society, chose to act the clown in this.
In due course, order was restored, more from the appearance of a
waiter with nuts and raisins, than from an natural reaction.
"Name my apple, Mr. Perkins,"--(don't smile, reader--it's a true
picture)--whispered a young lady to the young man sitting next her.
"It is named."
"Name my apple, Mr. Collins," said Julia, with a nod and a smile.
"It is named."
"And mine, Mr. Collins"--"And mine, Mr. Warburton"--"And mine, Mr.
Jones."
The apples being eaten, the important business of counting seed came
next in order.
"How many have you got, Julia?"
"Six."
"She loves!"
"Who is it, Mr. Collins?" asked two or three voices.
"Mr. Warburton," was the reply.
"I thought so, I thought so,--see how she blushes."
And in fact the red blood was mounting fast to Julia's face.
The incident escaped neither the eye of Warburton nor of Perkins. To
go through the whole insipid scene would not interest any reader,
and so we will omit it.
After the apples were eaten, "hull-gull,"--"nuts in my hand," &c.,
were played, and then music was called for
"Miss Simmons, give us an air, if you please."
"Indeed you must excuse me, I am out of practice."
"No excuse can be taken. We all know that you can play, and we must
hear you this evening."
"I would willingly oblige the company, but I have not touched the
piano for two months, and cannot play fit to be heard."
"O, never mind, we'll be the judges of that."
"Come, Miss Simmons, do play for us now, that's a good soul!"
"Indeed you must excuse me!"
But no excuse would be taken. And in spite of protestations, she was
forced to take a seat at the piano.
"Well, since I must, I suppose I must. What will you have."
"Give us 'Bonny Doon'--it is so sweet and melancholy," said an
interesting-looking young man.
"'Charlie over the Water,' is beautiful--I dote on that pong; do
sing it, Miss Simmons!"
"Give us Auld Lang Syne.'"
"Yes, or Burns's Farewell.'"
"'Oft in the Stilly Night,' Miss Simmons--you can sing that."
"Yes, 'Oft in the Stilly Night,'--Miss Simmons," said half-a-dozen
voices, and so that was finally chosen. After running her fingers
over the keys for a few moments, Miss Simmons started off.
Before she had half finished the first verse, the hum of voices,
which had commenced as soon as she began to sing, rose to such a
pitch as almost to drown the sound of the instrument. She laboured
on through about a verse and a half of the song, when she rose from
the piano, and was proceeding to her vacant seat.
"O no!--no!--no!" said half-a-dozen voices at once.
"That will never do-we must have another song."
"Indeed I can't sing to-night, and _must_ be excused," said the lady
warmly, and so she _was_ excused. But soon another was chosen to be
victimized at the piano, and "will-ye-nill-ye," sing she must.
Simultaneous with the sound of the instrument rose the hum of
voices, which grew louder and louder, until the performer stopped,
discouraged and chagrined.
"That's beautiful! How well you play, Miss Emma!" and Miss Emma was
forced to resume the seat she had left half in mortification. All
was again still for a moment.
"Can you play the 'Harp and Lute,' Miss Emma?"
"No sir."
"Yes you can, though, for I've heard you many a time," said a smart
young lady sitting on the opposite side of the room.
The blood mounted to the performer's cheeks. "Indeed you're mistaken
though," half pettishly replied Miss Emma.
"But you _can_ play 'Yankee Doodle,'" retorted the first speaker.
Miss Emma left the instrument in anger.
"I'll never speak to the pert minx again as long as I live,"
whispered Miss Emma in the ear of a friend.
Thus ended the musical exhibition for that evening. As the spirit of
wine grew more active, the men became less formal in their
attentions, and the young ladies less reserved. Before the company
broke up, I almost blush to say, that there was scarcely a lady
present who had not suffered her red-ripe lips to be touched by
those of every young man in the room. And on all these proceedings,
the parents of Julia looked on with keen satisfaction! They liked to
see the young people enjoying themselves!
Then there were rambles by moonlight, during which soft things were
whispered in the ears of the young ladies. These were the occasions
on which Warburton loved most to steal away the fond confidence of
Julia; and, by degrees, he succeeded in fixing her regard upon
himself. Consent was asked of the parents, and given; and soon Julia
Forrester was Mrs. Warburton. It was only six months after the
marriage that a commercial crisis arrived; one of those reactions
from prosperity which occur in this country with singular
regularity, every ten or fifteen years, and swept from Julia's
father the whole of his property. This sudden revulsion so preyed
upon his mind, that a serious illness came on, which hurried him in
a brief period to the grave. The mother of Julia soon followed him.
Warburton, ere this, had neglected his wife, and wrung from her many
a secret tear. He had married her for the prospect of worldly gain
which the connection held out, and not from any genuine regard. And
when all hope of a fortune was suddenly cut off, he as suddenly
appeared in his real character of a heartless and unprincipled man.
He held the situation of clerk, at the time, in the same store where
he had been for years. But immediately upon the death of his
father-in-law, a flood of demands for debts due here and there came
in upon him, and not having where with to meet them, he was thrown
into jail, and obtained his freedom only by availing himself of the
law made and provided for the benefit of Insolvent Debtors.
His poor wife knew nothing of the proceedings against him, until he
was lodged in the jail. Hour after hour had passed since the time
for his return to dinner, and yet she listened in vain for his
well-known footsteps. She felt strangely oppressed in feeling when
the dim twilight came stealing sadly on, and still he came not home.
But when the clock struck nine, ten, eleven,--her distress of mind
became heightened to agony. The question, so often asked of herself,
"Where _can_ he be?" could find no answer. All night long she sat
listening at the window, and sunk into a heavy slumber, just as the
grey light of morning stole into the window and paled the expiring
lamp. From this slumber, which had continued for nearly two hours,
she was aroused by the entrance of a servant, who handed her a note,
addressed in the well-known hand of her husband. Tremblingly she
tore open the seal; at the first words:
Jail.
DEAR JULIA:
the note fell from her hand, and she pressed her aching head for a
moment, as if she feared that her senses would leave her. Then
snatching up the paper, she read:--
"Yesterday I was sent here for debt. I owe more than I can possibly
pay, and I see no chance of getting out but by availing myself of
the Insolvent Law, which I am determined to do. Don't let it trouble
you, Julia; I shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall probably be
at liberty. Good-bye, and keep a brave heart,
H. WARBURTON."
For some time after reading this letter, a stupor came over her
senses. Utterly unprepared for such a distressing event, she knew
not how to act. The idea of a jail had ever been associated in her
mind with disgrace and crime, and to think that her own husband was
in jail almost bereft her of rational thought. Slowly, however, she
at length rallied, and found herself able to appreciate her
situation, and to think more clearly on her course of action.
Her first determination was to go to her husband. This she
immediately did. When admitted, she fell senseless in his arms, and
it was a long time before she recovered her consciousness. Her
presence seemed to move his feelings less than it annoyed him. There
was nothing about his manner that sought affectionately her sympathy
and confidence--that which gives woman, in situations no matter how
distressing, something so much like happiness to bestow. He gave her
but little satisfaction as to the manner in which he became
involved, and when, after several hours, she prepared to go home, at
his suggestion, he told her that she must not come there again, as
it was not a fit place for her.
"If you are here, Henry," was her reply, the tears starting freshly
to her eyes--"it is a fit place for me."
"That's all nonsense and sentiment, Julia! This is no place for you,
and you must not come again. I shall be out in a day or two."
"A day or two is a long--long time,"--and the poor wife's voice
trembled as she spoke.
"It will soon pass away."
"It will seem ages to me, and you in this dreadful place. I must
come tomorrow, Henry. Tell me who has imprisoned you, and I will go
to him, and come to-morrow with his answer. He cannot stand the
pleadings of a wife for her husband."
"It's no use, at all, Julia. He is a hard-faced villain, and will
insult you if you see him."
"He cannot--he dare not!"
"He dare do anything."
"Dear Henry, tell me his name."
"No!--no!--no!--It's no use to ask me."
She had many times before suffered from his petulance and coldness;
but under present circumstances, when she sought to bring him
sympathy and relief, to be repulsed, seemed as though it would break
her heart. Slowly and in tears did she leave the dreadful place that
confined her husband, and sought her home. There she endeavoured to
rally her scattered thoughts, and devise some means of relief. Her
first movement was to go to the employers of her husband. They
received her coldly, and after she had stated the condition of her
husband, told her that they could offer no relief, and hinted that
his conduct had been such as to forfeit their confidence. This was a
double blow; and she returned home with but strength enough to seek
her chamber and throw herself, almost fainting, upon her bed.
For hours she lay in a kind of nervous stupor, the most fantastic
and troubled images floating through her brain. Sometimes she would
start up, at the imagined sound of her husband's voice, and spring
to the chamber-door to meet him. But the chilling reality would
drive her back in tears. Where now were the crowds of friends that
but a short time since had hovered round her? They were but
fashionable, soulless insects--the cold winds of adversity had swept
them away. Since the failure and death of her father, not one of the
many who had called her friend had come near her lonely dwelling.
But she could not complain. More than one friend had she deserted,
when misfortune came suddenly upon them.
She took no food through the whole of that dreadful day, and could
find no oblivious sleep during the night of agony that followed. On
the next day, just as she had determined to go again to the prison,
her quick ear recognised the foot-fall of her husband. She sprang to
meet him, with a gladder heart than she had known for many
weeks--but his cold manner and brief words threw back upon her
feelings a sickening chill.
"We must move from here, Julia," said he, after a few silent
moments, and looked at her as though he expected objection as a
matter of course.
"I am willing, if it is necessary, Henry. I will go anywhere with
_you_."
Her manner softened his feelings, and he said more tenderly,
"Things are changed with me, Julia. In expectation of something
handsome from your father, I have been imprudent, and am now largely
in debt. The Messrs. R. & L. will not, I am sure, take me back into
their store, and it will be hard, I am afraid, for me to get a
situation in town. Our furniture, which I have secured to you, is
all we have, except about money enough to pay our quarter's rent now
due. I see no wiser plan for us than to sell this furniture, except
enough for one chamber, and then go to boarding. It will bring a sum
sufficient to pay our board and other expenses for at least one
year, if we manage prudently; and, surely, I can get something to do
in the mean time."
"I am willing for anything, dear Henry!" said his wife, twining her
arms about his neck, and laying her pale cheek to his. The furniture
was accordingly sold, and the reduced and humbled couple removed to
a boardinghouse.
As he had expected, Warburton found it hard to get employment.
Finally, after doing nothing for two months, he accepted the
situation of bar-keeper at one of the city hotels. Julia pleaded
hard with him not to go there, for she feared the influence of such
a place upon him, but he would listen to no argument.
His wife soon began to observe indications of a change for the worse
in his character. He grew more pettish and dissatisfied, and
frequently acted towards her with great unkindness. He was rarely,
if ever, at home before midnight, and then repulsed every
affectionate act or word. Several times he came in intoxicated, and
once, while in that state, he struck her a severe blow on the head,
which caused an illness of several weeks.
At the end of a year, Warburton had not only become dissipated in
his habits, but had connected himself with a set of gamblers, who,
as he proved to be a skilful hand, and not at all squeamish,
resolved to send him on a trip down the Ohio and Mississippi, to New
Orleans, for mutual benefit. To this he had not the slightest
objection. He told his wife that he was going to New Orleans on
business for the Stage Office, and would probably be gone all
winter. Unkind as he had grown, it was hard parting. Gladly would
she have taken all the risk of fatigue, to have accompanied him with
her babe but four months old, but he would listen to no such
proposal. When he did go, she felt sick at heart, and, as the
thought flashed across her mind that he might probably desert her,
helpless and friendless as she was, it seemed as if the fever of her
mind would end in madness.
Regularly, however, for several months, she heard from him, and each
time he enclosed her money; but little more than was sufficient to
meet expenses. In the last letter she received, he hinted that he
might return home in a few weeks. At the usual time of receiving a
letter, she waited day after day, hoping and almost fearing to
receive one--anxious to hear from him, and yet fearing that he might
have changed his mind as to his contemplated return.
Week after week passed, and there were no tidings. Day after day she
went to the post-office with an anxious heart, which throbbed
quicker and quicker as the clerk mechanically and carelessly turned
over letter after letter, and at last pronounced the word "none,"
with professional indifference. Then it would seem to stop, and lie
like a motionless weight in her bosom, and she would steal away
paler and sicker than when she came. At last, her distress of mind
became so great, that she went, reluctantly, to the stage-office, to
inquire if they had heard from him recently. To her hesitating,
anxious inquiry, she received the brief reply that they knew nothing
of him.
"But is he not in the employment of this office?"
"I hope not," was the short, sneering reply of one of the clerks.
"What do you mean, sir?" she asked, in an excited tone--"he is my
husband."
The manner of the man instantly changed. "Nothing, ma'am.--It was
only a thoughtless reply. He is not, however, in our employment, and
never has been."
Mrs. Warburton turned pale as ashes. A chair was instantly handed to
her, and a glass of water, and every kind attention offered.
At this moment a man entered, who eyed Mrs. W. with a vulgar stare.
The person who had first spoken to Mrs. W. took him aside, and after
conversing in whispers for a few moments, turned to her and said
that he had just learned that her husband had joined a band of
traders, and was now on his way to Mexico.
"How do you know?" was the quick reply.
"This gentleman has just told me."
"And how do you know, sir?"
"I received a letter from him three weeks ago, in which he stated
the fact to me. He has been in my employment ever since he has been
away, but has left it and gone to Mexico."
"When did he say he would return?" she asked, in a calm voice.
"That is uncertain, madam."
She tottered out of the office, and stole home with an enfeebled
step. "Forsaken!--forsaken!"--was all the form her thoughts would
take, until she met the sweet face of her babe, and then her heart
felt warmer, and not all forsaken.
"Poor thing! how I pity her," said the clerk in the stage-office,
when Mrs. W. had retired. "Her husband is a scoundrel, that's all I
know about it," responded the gentleman-gambler, who had sent
Warburton out on a swindling expedition.
"The more the pity for his poor wife."
"I wonder if she has any property of his in her hands?" queried the
gambler.
"Why?"
"Why?--Why because I'll have my own out of it if she has. I have his
note, payable in a week, for money lent; and if he has got a dollar
here, I'll have it."
"You'll not turn his wife out of doors, will you?"
"Will I?"--and his face grew dark with evil thoughts.--"Will
I?--yes!--what care I for the whining wench! I'll see her to-morrow,
and know what we have both to expect."
"Coulson!" said the clerk, in an excited but firm voice--"You shall
not trouble that helpless, unfortunate woman!"
"_Shall not?_ ha! Pray, Mr. Sympathy, and how can you hinder me?"
"Look you to that, sir. I _act_, you know, not threaten."
The gambler's face grew darker, but the clerk turned away with a
look of contempt, and resumed his employment.
That night he sought the dwelling of Mrs. Warburton. He found her
boarding at a respectable house on--street. He named his business
at once, and warned her not to allow herself to get in the power of
Coulson, who was a gambler, and an abandoned villain.
When he understood her real situation--that she was in debt for
board, and without a dollar, forsaken of her husband, and among
strangers, his heart ached for her. Himself but on the salary of a
clerk, he could give little or no assistance. But advice and
sympathy he tendered, and requested her to call on him at any time,
if she thought that he could aid her. A kind word, a sympathising
tone, is, to one in such a sad condition, like gentle dews to the
parched ground.
"Above all," was his parting admonition, "beware of Coulson! He will
injure your character if he can. Do not see him. Forbid the servants
to admit him. He will, if he fixes his heart upon seeing you, leave
no stone unturned to accomplish it. But waver not in your
determination. And be sure to let me know if he persecutes you too
closely. Be resolute, and fear not. I know the man, and have crossed
his path ere this. And he knows me."
Early on the next day, Coulson called, and with the most insinuating
address, asked to see Mrs. Warburton.
"Ask him to send up his name," was Mrs. W.'s reply to the
information of the servant, that a gentleman wished to speak to her.
"Coulson," was returned.
"Tell him that I cannot see him."
To this answer he sent back word that his business was important and
urgent.
"Tell him that I cannot see him," was the firm reply.
Coulson left the house, baffled for once. The next day he called,
and sent up another name.
"He is the same person who called himself 'Coulson' yesterday," said
the servant to Mrs. W.
"Tell him that I cannot be seen."
"I'll match the huzzy yet!" he muttered to himself as he left the
house.
It now became necessary for Mrs. Warburton to rally all the energies
of her nature, feeble though they were, and yet untried. The rate of
boarding which she was required to pay, was much beyond what she
could now afford. At first she nearly gave up to despair. Thus far
in life, she had never earned a single dollar, and, from her
earliest recollection, the thought of working for money seemed to
imply degradation. But necessity soon destroys false pride. Her
greatest concern now was, what she should do for a living. She had
learned to play on the piano, to draw and paint, and had practised
embroidery. But in all these she had sought only amusement. In not a
single one of them was she proficient enough to teach. Fine sewing
she could not do. Her dresses had all been made by the mantua-maker,
and her fine sewing by the family sempstress. She had been raised in
idle pleasure--had spent her time in thrumming on the piano, making
calls, tripping about the streets, and entertaining company.
But wherever there is the will, there is a way. Through the kind
interference of a stranger, she was enabled to act decisively. Two
rooms were procured, and after selling various articles of costly
chamber furniture which still remained, she was enabled to furnish
them plainly and comfortably, and have about fifty dollars left.
Through the kind advice of this same stranger, (where were all her
former friends?) employment was had, by which she was soon able to
earn from four to five dollars a week.
Her employment was making cigars. At first, the tobacco made her so
sick that she was unable to hold her head up, or work more than half
her time. But after awhile she became used to it, and could work
steadily all day; though she often suffered with a distressing
headache. Mrs. Warburton was perhaps the first woman who made cigars
in--. Through the application of a third person, to a
manufacturer, the work was obtained, and given, from motives of
charity.
She had been thus employed for about three months, and was beginning
to work skilfully enough to earn four dollars a week, and give all
necessary attention to herself and child, when Mr.--, the
manufacturer, received a note signed by all the journeymen in his
shop, demanding of him the withdrawal of all work from Mrs.
Warburton, on pain of their refusal to work a day longer. It was an
infringement, they said, upon their rights. Women could afford to
work cheaper than men, and would ruin the business.
Mr.--was well off, and, withal, a man who could brook no
dictation, in his business. His journeymen were paid their regular
wages, and had, he knew, no right to say whom he should employ; and
for any such interference he promptly resolved to teach them a
lesson. He was, moreover, indignant that a parcel of men, many of
whom spent more money at the taverns and in foolish expenses, in the
week, than the poor forsaken mother of a young babe could earn in
that time, should heartlessly endeavour to rob the more than widow
of her hard-earned mite.
"I will sacrifice half that I am worth, before I will yield to such
dictation," was his only answer to the demand. The foolish men
"struck," and turned out to lounge idly in taverns and other places,
until their employer should come to terms. They were, however, soon
convinced of their folly; for but a few weeks elapsed before Mr. had
employed females to make his cigars, who could afford to work for
one-third less than the journeymen had been receiving, and make good
wages at that. The consequence was, that the men who had, from
motives of selfishness, endeavoured to deprive Mrs. W. of her only
chance of support, were unable to obtain work at any price. Several
of them fell into idle and dissolute habits, and became vagabonds.
Other manufacturers of cigars followed the example of Mr.--, and
lessened the demand for journeymen; and the result in this instance
was but a similar one to that which always follows combinations
against employers--viz: to injure the interests of journeymen.
It was not long before Coulson found out the retreat of Mrs.
Warburton, and commenced his persecutions. The note of her husband
had fallen due, and his first movement was to demand the payment.
Perceiving, however, at once, that to make the money out of any
property in her possession was impossible, he changed his manner,
and offered to befriend her in any way that lay in his power. For a
moment she was thrown off her guard; but remembering the caution she
had received, she assumed a manner of the most rigid coldness
towards him, and told him that she already had friends who would
care for her. The next day she managed to apprize the clerk in the
Stage Office of the visit of Coulson, who promptly took measures to
alarm his fears, for he was a coward at heart, and effectually
prevent his again troubling her.
Little of an interesting nature occurred for about a year, when she
received a letter from her husband at Cincinnati. He stated that
having despaired of getting along in the business he had entered
into on leaving--which had involved him in debt, he had left with a
company of traders for Mexico, and had just returned with a little
money, with which he wished to go into business. But that if he
returned to--, he would be troubled, and all he had taken from him.
He enclosed her a hundred dollar note, and wished her to come to him
immediately, and to leave--without letting any one know her
destination. He professed much sorrow for having left her in so
destitute a condition, but pleaded stern necessity for the act.
Mrs. W. did not hesitate a moment. In four days from the time she
received the letter, she was on the way to Cincinnati. Arrived
there, she was met by her husband with some show of affection. He
was greatly changed since she had seen him, and showed many
indications of irregular habits. He appeared to have plenty of
money, and took rooms for his wife in a respectable boardinghouse.
The improvement in his child pleased him much. When he went away it
was only about five months old--now it was a bright little boy, and
could run about and chatter like a bird. After some hesitation in
regard to the kind of business he should select, he at last
determined to go into the river-trade. To this Mrs. Warburton gently
objected; because it would keep him away from home for months
together. But his capital was small, and he at length made his first
purchase of produce, and started in a flat-boat for New Orleans.
Poor Mrs. W. felt as if deserted again when he left her. But at the
end of three months he returned, having cleared four hundred dollars
by the trip. He remained at home this time for two months, drinking
and gambling; and at the expiration of that period had barely enough
left to make a small purchase and start again.
Her troubles, she plainly saw, were just beginning again, and Mrs.
Warburton almost wished herself back again in the city, for which,
though there she had no friends, her heart yearned.
Her husband did not return, this time, from his river-voyage, for
three months; nor did he send his wife during that time any money.
The amount left her was entirely exhausted before the end of the
second month, and having heard nothing of him since he went away,
she feared to get in debt, and, therefore, two weeks before her
money was out, applied for work at a cigar-factory. Here she was
fortunate enough to obtain employment, and thus keep herself above
absolute want.
Long before her husband returned, her heart had fearful forebodings
of a second blighting of all its dearest hopes. Not the less
painful, were those anticipations, because she had once suffered.
One evening in June, just three months from the time her husband
left, she had paused from her almost unremitted employment, during
the violence of a tremendous storm, that was raging without. The
thunder rattled around in startling peals, and the lightning blazed
from cloud to cloud, without a moment's intermission. She could not
work while she felt that the bolt of death hung over her. For half
an hour had the storm raged, when in one of the pauses which
indicated its passing away, she started at the sound of a voice that
seemed like that of her husband. In the next moment another voice
mingled with it, and both were loud and angry. Fearfully she flung
open the door, and just on the pavement, drenched with the rain, and
unregardful of the storm, for one more terrible raged within, stood
two men, contending with each other in mortal strife, while horrible
oaths and imprecations rolled from their lips. One of these, from
his distorted face, rendered momently visible in the vivid flashes
of the lightning, and from his voice, though loud and disguised by
passion, she at once knew to be her husband. His antagonist was not
so strong a man, but he was more active, and seemed much cooler.
Each had in his hand an open Spanish knife, and both were striking,
plunging, and parrying thrusts with the most malignant fury. It was
an awful sight to look upon. Two human beings striving for each
other's lives amid the fury of a terrible storm, the lightnings of
which glanced sharply upon their glittering knives, revealing their
fiend-like countenances for an instant, and then leaving them in
black darkness.
For a few moments, Mrs. Warburton stood fixed to the spot, but,
recalling her scattered senses, she rushed towards the combatants,
calling upon them to pause, and repeating the name of her husband in
a voice of agony. The result of the strife was delayed but an
instant longer, for with a loud cry her husband fell bleeding at her
feet. His antagonist passed out of sight in a moment.
Lifting the apparently lifeless form of her husband in her arms,
Mrs. Warburton carried or rather dragged him into the house, and
placed him upon the bed, where lay their sleeping boy. She then
hurried off for the nearest physician, who was soon in attendance.
The first sound that met the ear of Mrs. Warburton, on her return,
was the voice of her dear child, eagerly calling, "Pa! pa! wake up,
pa!"--And there was the little fellow pulling at the insensible body
of his father, in an (sic) extacy of infantile joy at his return.
"Pa come home!--Pa come home, mamma!" And the little fellow clapped
his hands, and shook the body of his father in the effort to wake
him.
The mother gently lifted her child from the bed. His little face
instantly changed its expression into one of fear, when he looked
into his mother's countenance. "Pa's very sick, and little Charles
must keep still," she whispered to the child, and sat him down in
the next room.
When the physician arrived, he found that the knife had entered the
left breast just above the heart, but had not penetrated far enough
to destroy life. There were also several bad cuts, in different
parts of his body, all of which required attention. After dressing
them, he left the still insensible man in the care of his wife and
one of his assistants, with directions to have him called should any
alarming symptom occur. It was not until the next morning that there
was any apparent return of consciousness on the part of the wounded
man. Then he asked in a feeble voice for his wife. She had left the
bed but a moment before, and hearing him speak, was by his side in
an instant.
"Julia, how came I here? What is the matter?" said he, rousing up,
and looking anxiously around. But overcome with weakness from the
loss of blood, he sank back upon the bed, and remained apparently
insensible for some time. But he soon showed evidence of painful
recollection having returned. For his breathing became more
laboured, under agitated feelings, and he glanced his eyes about the
room with an eager expression. After a few minutes he buried his
face in the bed-clothes and sighed heavily. Distinct, painful
consciousness had returned.
In a few days he began to grow stronger, and was able to sit up; and
with the return of bodily vigour came back the deadly passions that
had agitated him on the night of his return home. The man, he said,
had literally robbed him of his money, (in fact, won it); had
cheated him out of every dollar of his hard-earned gains, and he
would have his life.
When hardly well enough to walk about, Warburton felt the evil
influence of his desire for revenge so strong, as to cause him to
seek out the individual who, he conceived, had wronged him, by
winning from him, or cheating him out of his money. They met in one
of the vile places in Cincinnati, where vice loves to do her dark
work in secret. Truly are they called hells, for there the love of
evil and hatred of the neighbour prompt to action. Every malignant
passion in the heart of Warburton was roused into full vigour, when
his eyes fell upon the face of his former associate. Instantly he
grasped his knife, and with a yell of fiendish exultation sprang
towards him, like some savage beast eager for his prey. The other
gambler was a cool man, and hard to throw off of his guard. His
first movement was to knock Warburton down, then drawing his Spanish
knife, he waited calmly and firmly for his enemy to rise. Blind with
passion, Warburton sprang to his feet and rushed upon the other, who
received him upon the point of his knife, which entered deep into
the abdomen. At the same instant, Warburton's knife was plunged into
the heart of his adversary, who staggered off from its point, reeled
for a few seconds about the room, and then fell heavily upon the
floor. He was dead before the cool spectators of the horrid scene
could raise him up.
From loss of blood Warburton soon fainted, and when he came to
himself, he found that he had been conveyed to his home, and that
his weeping wife stood over him. There were also others in the room,
and he soon learned that he was to be conveyed, even in the
condition he was then in, to prison, to await his trial for murder.
In vain did his poor heart-stricken wife plead that he might be left
there until he recovered, or even until his wound was dressed; but
she pleaded in vain. On a litter, faint from loss of blood, and
groaning with pain, he was carried off to prison. By his side walked
her whom no ill treatment or neglect could estrange.
Three months he was kept in jail, attended daily by his
uncomplaining wife, who supported herself and little boy, with her
own hands, sparing much for her husband's comfort. The wound had not
proved very dangerous, and long before his trial came on, he was as
well as ever.
The day of trial at length came, and Mrs. Warburton found that it
required her strongest efforts to keep sufficiently composed to
comprehend the true nature and bearing of all the legal proceedings.
Never in her life before had she been in a court of justice, and the
bare idea of being in that, to her awful, place, stunned at first
all her perceptions; especially as she was there under circumstances
of such deep and peculiar interest.
Next to her husband, in the bar, did this suffering woman take her
place: and that husband arraigned before. his country's tribunal for
the highest crime--murder! How little did she dream of such an awful
situation, years before, when a gay, thoughtless, innocent girl, she
gave up in maiden confidence, and with deep joy, her affections to
that husband. Passing on step by step, in misery's paths, she had at
last reached a point, the bare idea of which, had it been
entertained as possible for a moment, would have almost extinguished
life. Now, her deep interest in that husband who had abused her
confidence, and almost extinguished hope in her bosom, kept her up,
and enabled her to watch with unwavering attention every minute
proceeding.
After the indictment was read, and the State's Attorney, in a
comprehensive manner, had stated the distinct features of the case,
which he pledged himself to prove by competent witnesses, poor Mrs.
Warburton became sick and faint. A clearer case of deliberate murder
could not, it seemed to her, be made out. Still, she was sure there
must be palliating circumstances, and longed to be permitted to rise
and state her impressions of the case. Once she did start to her
feet, but a right consciousness returned before she had uttered a
word. Shrinking into her seat again, she watched with a pale face
and eager look, the course of the proceedings.
Witness after witness was called on the part of the state, each
testifying distinctly the fact of Warburton's attack upon the
murdered man, and his threat to take his life. Hope seemed utterly
to fail from the heart of the poor wife, when the testimony on the
part of the prosecution closed. But now came the time for the
examination of witnesses in favour of the prisoner. Soon Mrs.
Warburton was seen upon her feet, bending over towards the witness'
stand, and eagerly devouring each word. Rapid changes would pass
over her countenance, as she comprehended, with a woman's quickness
of perception, rendered acute by strong interest, the bearing which
the evidence would have upon the case. Now her eye would flash with
interest and her face become flushed--and now her cheek would pale,
and her form seem to shrink into half its dimensions. Oh! who can
imagine one thousandth part of all her sufferings on that awful
occasion? When, finally, the case was given to the jury, and after
waiting hour after hour at the court-house, to hear the decision,
she had to go home long after dark, in despair of knowing the result
before morning, it seemed hardly possible that she could pass
through that night and retain her senses. She did not sleep through
the night's long watches--how could she sleep? Hours before the
court assembled, she was at the court-house, waiting to know the
fate of one, who now, in his fearful extremity, seemed dearer to her
than ever. Slowly passed the lingering minutes, and at length ten
o'clock came. The court-room was filled to suffocation, but through
the dense crowd she made her way, and took her place beside her
anxious husband. The court opened, and the foreman of the jury came
forward to read the verdict. Many an eye sought with eager
curiosity, or strong interest, the face of the wife. Its calmness
was strange and awful. All anxiety, all deep interest had left it,
and as she turned her eye upon the foreman, none could read the
slightest exhibition of emotion. "GUILTY OF MURDER IN THE SECOND
DEGREE!" Quick as thought a hundred eyes again sought the face of
Mrs. Warburton. It was pale as ashes, and her insensible form was
gently reclining upon the arm of her husband, which had been
extended to save her from falling.
When recollection returned, she was lying upon her own bed, in her
own chamber, with her little boy crying by her side. Those who had,
from humane feelings, conveyed her home, suffered the dictates of
humanity to die in their bosoms ere her consciousness returned; and
thus she was left, insensible, with no companion but her child.
In due course, Warburton was sentenced to eight years imprisonment,
the first three years to be passed in solitary confinement. During
the first term, no person was to be allowed to visit him. The
knowledge of such a sentence was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Warburton.
She parted from him in the court-room, on the day of his sentence,
and for three long, weary years, her eyes saw him not again.
But a short time after the imprisonment of Warburton, another babe
came into the world to share the misery of her whose happiness he
had, in all his actions, so little regarded. When able again to go
about, and count up her store, Mrs. Warburton found that she had
little left her beyond a willing heart to labour for her children.
It would have been some comfort to her if she had been permitted to
visit her husband, but this the law forbade.
"Despair is never quite despair," and once more in her life did Mrs.
Warburton prove this. The certainty that there could be no further
dependence upon her husband, led her to repose more confidently in
her own resources, for a living, and they did not fail her. She had
long since found out that our necessities cost much less than our
superfluities, and therefore she did not sit down in idle
despondency. Early in the morning and late at night was she found
diligently employed, and though her compensation was not great, it
was enough to supply her real wants.
For two years had she supported thus with her own hands herself and
children. The oldest was now a smart little fellow of five years,
and the youngest a fair-haired girl of some two summers. Thus far
had she kept them around her; but sickness at last came. Nature
could not always sustain the heavy demands made upon her, and at
last sunk under them.
There are many more cases of extreme suffering in this country than
persons are generally willing to believe. These extreme cases are
among those whose peculiar feelings will not allow of their making
known their real condition. They are such as were once members of
some social circle, far removed indeed from the apparent chances of
poverty. Their shrinking pride, their yearning desire for
independence clings closer and closer to them, and operates more and
more powerfully, as they sink lower and lower, from uncontrollable
causes, into the vale of want and destitution. Beggars with no
feelings, and no claims beyond those of idleness and intemperance,
thrust themselves forward, and consume the bread of charity, that
should go to nourish the widow and the orphan, who suffer daily and
nightly, rather than ask for aid.
One to whom the idea of eating the bread of charity had ever been a
painful and revolting one, was Mrs. Warburton. So long as she was
able, she had earned with untiring industry, the food that nourished
her children. But close confinement, insufficient nourishment,
labour beyond her strength, and above all, a wounded spirit, at last
completed the undermining work, which threw down the tottering and
feeble health that had long kept her at her duties.
It was mid-winter when she was severely attacked by a
bilious-pleurisy. For some weeks she had drooped about, hardly able
to perform half her wonted labour--most of that time suffering from
a hard cough and distressing pain in the side, which was augmented
almost to agony while bending steadily, and for hours over her work.
Taking, as it did, all that she could earn to keep herself and
children in comfort during the winter, she had nothing laid up for a
time of more pressing need; and, as for the last few weeks, she had
earned so little as to have barely enough for necessaries, when
helplessness came, she was in utter destitution, Her wood was just
out, except a few hard, knotted logs; her flour was out, and her
money gone. When she could no longer sit up, she sent her little boy
for a physician, who bled her, and left her some powerful medicines.
The first gave temporary relief, and the latter reduced her to a
state of great bodily and mental weakness. He did not call in again
until the second day, when he found the children both in bed with
their mother, who was suffering greatly from a return of the pain in
her side. The room was chilly, for there was no fire, and it was
intensely cold without, and the ground covered with a deep snow. He
again bled her, which produced immediate relief, and learning that
she had no wood, called in at the next door, where lived a wealthy
family, and stated the condition of their poor neighbour A child of
six years old stood by his mother while the physician was speaking.
The lady seemed much affected when told of the sufferings of the,
poor woman, politely thanked the physician for making her acquainted
with the fact, and promised immediate attention.
That evening there was to be at this house a large party. Extra
servants had been employed that day, and all was bustle and
preparation.
"Sarah," called the lady, a few minutes after, to her
housekeeper--"Sarah, Dr. H--was here just now, and said that the
poor woman who lives next door is sick and out of fuel. Tell John to
take her in an armful of wood, and do you just step in and see what
more she is in want of."
"Yes, ma'am," responds Sarah, and muttering to herself some
dissatisfaction at the order, descends to the kitchen, and addresses
a sable man-servant, and kind of doer-of-all-work-in-general, in
doors and out,
"John, Mrs.--says you must take an armful of wood in to Mrs.
Warrington; I believe that is the woman's name who lives next door."
"Who? de woman whose husband in de (sic) Penetentiary?"
"Yes, that's the one, John."
"Don't love to meddle wid dem guess sort of folks, Miss Sarah.
'Druder not be gwine in dere," responds the black, with a broad grin
at his own humour.
"Well, I don't care whether you do or not," responds Sarah, and
glides swiftly away, satisfied to do one part of her order and
forget the other, which related to her going in to see the poor
woman herself. Mrs.--shifted off the duty on her housekeeper, and
she contented herself by forgetting it.
Little William, who was present with his mother when the doctor
called, was, like all children, a true republican, and had often
played with the child of the sick woman. He had seen his little
playmate but a few times since the cold weather set in; but had all
his sympathies aroused, at the doctor's recital. Being rather more
suspicious of the housekeeper than his mother, and no doubt for good
reasons best known to himself, he followed on to the kitchen, and
was an ear-witness to what passed between John and the sub-mistress
of the mansion.
"Come, John, now that's a good fellow," said he to the negro, after
the housekeeper had retired, "take in some wood to poor Mrs.
Warburton."
"'Fraid, Massa Billy, 'deed. 'Fraid of (sic) penetentiary--ha! ha!!
ha!!!"
"She can't help that, though, John. So come along, and take the wood
in."
"'Fraid, i'deed, Massa Billy."
"Well, if you don't, I'll take it in myself, and dirty all my
clothes, and then somebody will find it out, without my turning
tell-tale."
John grinned a broad smile, and forthwith, finding himself
outwitted, carried in the wood, and left it in the middle of the
floor, without saying a word.
Towards evening, just before the company assembled, little William,
not at all disposed to forget, as every one else had done, the poor
sufferers next door, went to the housekeeper's room, where she was
busy as a bee with preparations for the party, and stationed himself
in the door, accosted her with--
"Miss Sarah, have you been in to see Mrs. Warburton, as ma told you,
to-day?"
"That's no concern of yours, Mr. Inquisitive."
"But I'd just like to know, Miss Sarah; 'cause I'm going in myself,
if you hav'nt been."
"Do you suppose that I have not paid attention to what your ma said?
I know my own business, without instruction from you."
"Well, I don't believe you've been in, so I don't, that's all; and
if you don't say yes or no at once, why, you see, I'll go right in
myself."
"Well (coaxingly) never mind, Billy, I haint been in, I've been so
busy; but just wait a little bit, and I'll go There's no use of your
going; you can't do nothing."
"I know that, Miss Sarah, and that's why I want you to go in. But if
you don't go in, I will, so there, now!"
"Well, just wait a little bit, and I'll go."
The child, but half satisfied, slowly went away, but lingered about
the passages to watch the housekeeper. Night, however, came on, and
he had not seen her going. All were now busy lighting up, and making
the more immediate and active preparations for the reception of
company, when he met her in the hall, and to his, "Look here, I say,
Miss Sarah," she hurried past him unheeding.
The company at last assembled, and the hours had passed away until
it was nine o'clock. Without, all was cold, bleak, and cheerless.
Within, there was the perfection of comfort.
Little William had been absent for some time, but no one missed him.
Just as a large company were engaged in the various ways of passing
time, dancing, chatting, and partaking of refreshments, the room
door opened, and in came Master Billy, dragging in by the hand, a
little barefoot fellow about his own age, with nothing on but a
clean, well-patched shirt, and a pair of linen trowsers. Without
heeding the company, he pulled him up to the glowing grate, and in
the fulness of his young benevolent heart, cried out,
"Here's fire, Charley! Warm yourself, old fellow! Hurrah! I guess
I've fixed Miss Sarah now." And the little fellow clapped his hands
as innocently and as gracefully, as if there had been no one in the
room but himself and Charley.
All was agreeable and curious confusion in a few minutes, and scores
crowded around the poor child with a lively interest, who, an hour
before would have passed him in the street unnoticed.
"Why, Willy! what does all this mean?" exclaimed the father, after
something like order had been restored.
"Why, pa, you see, this is Charley Warburton," began the little
fellow, holding the astonished Charley by the hand, and presenting
him quite ceremoniously to his father. "Doctor H--came here
to-day, and told ma that his mother was sick next door, and that
they had no wood. So ma tells Sarah to send John in with some wood,
and to go in herself and see if they wanted anything. So Sarah goes
and tells John to go and take some wood in. But John he wa'nt going
to go, till I told him that if he didn't go I would, and if I went
to carrying in wood, I'd dirty all my clothes, and then somebody
would want to know the reason. So John he carried in some wood. Then
I watched Sarah, but she didn't go in. So I told her about it. And
then she promised, but didn't go. I told her again, and she
promised, but didn't go. I waited and waited until night, and still
Sarah didn't go in. Then you see, awhile ago I slipped out the front
door, and tried to go in to Mrs. Warburton's. But it was all so dark
there, that I couldn't see anybody; and when I called 'Charley,'
here, his mother said, softly, 'who's there,' and I said 'it's only
little Willy. Ma wants to know if you don't want nothing.' 'Oh, it's
little Willy--it's little Willy!' says Charley, and he jumps on the
floor, and then we both came in here. O! it's so dark and cold in
there--do pa go in, and make John build them a fire."
During the child's innocent but feeling recital, more than one eye
filled with tears. Mrs.--hung down her head for a moment, in
silent upbraidings of heart, for having consigned a work of charity
to neglectful and unfeeling servants. Then taking her child in her
arms, she hugged him to her bosom, and said,
"Bless you, bless you, my boy! That innocent heart has taught your
mother a lesson she will not soon forget." The father felt prouder
of his son than he had ever felt, and there were few present who did
not almost wish him their own. Little Charley was asked by Mr.--if
he was hungry, on observing him wistfully eyeing a piece of cake.
"We haint had nothin' to eat all day, sir, none of us."
"And why not, my little man?" asked Mr.--in a voice of assumed
calmness.
"'Cause, sir, we haint got nothin' to eat in the house. Mother
always had good things for us till she got sick, and now we are all
hungry, and haint got nothin' to eat."
"Here, Sarah, (to the housekeeper, who came in at the moment)--no,
not you, either--do you, Emma, (to his wife,) give this hungry child
some nourishing food with your own hands. He has a claim on you, for
the sake of our little Willy."
Mrs.--was not slow in relieving Charley's wants and then, after
excusing herself to the company, she visited, with John and Sarah,
the humble, uncomplaining child of humanity, who had been suffering,
so painfully, in the next house to her comfortable dwelling.
The light carried by John revealed, in the middle of the floor, the
armful of wood, in large logs, almost impossible to kindle, which
the servant had thrown down there without a word, or an offer to
make a fire. Mrs.--'s heart smote her when she saw this evidence
of her neglect of true charity. Enveloped in the bed-clothes, she
found Mrs. Warburton and her little child, the former suffering from
pain and fever, and the latter asleep, with tears glistening on her
eyelashes. The room was so cold that it sent chills all over her, as
she had come in without throwing a shawl around her shoulders.
"I am sorry to find you so sick, and everything around you so cold
and comfortless," she said, addressing Mrs. Warburton.
"I don't feel so very sick, ma'am, only when I try to sit up, I grow
so faint, and have to lie down again. If my little things had
anything to eat, I wouldn't mind it much."
Just then, aroused by the voice of her mother, the little girl
awoke, and began moaning and crying. She could not speak plain, and
her "bed and mik, mamma"--"O, mamma, bed and mik," thrilled every
heart-string of Mrs.--, who had never before in her life witnessed
the keen distress of a mother while her child asked in vain for
bread. She drew the child out of bed, and kissing it, handed it to
Sarah, whose feelings were also touched, and told her to take the
little thing into her house, and give it to the nurse, with
directions to feed it, and then come back.
By this time, John, rather more active than usual, had kindled a
fire, the genial warmth of which began already to soften the keen
air of the room. Some warm drinks were prepared for Mrs. Warburton;
and Mrs.--had the satisfaction to see her, in the course of half
an hour, sink away into a sweet and refreshing slumber. On glancing
around the room, she was gratified, and somewhat surprised, to see
everything, though plain and scanty, exhibiting the utmost order and
cleanliness. The uncarpeted floor was spotless, and the single pine
table as white as hands could make it. "How much am I to blame," was
her inward thought, "for having so neglected this poor woman in her
distress and in her poverty!"
On returning to her company, and giving a history of the scene she
had just witnessed, the general feeling of sympathy prompted
immediate measures for relief, and a very handsome sum was placed in
the hands of Mrs.--, by the gentlemen and ladies present, for the
use of Mrs. Warburton. Rarely does a social company retire with each
individual of it so satisfied in heart as did the company assembled
at Mrs.--'s, on that evening. Truly could they say, "It is more
blessed to give than to receive."
The incident just related, possessing a kind of romantic interest,
soon became noised about from family to family, and for awhile it
was fashionable to minister to the wants of Mrs. Warburton--whose
health continued very delicate--and to her young family. But a few
months passed away, and then one after another ceased to remember or
care for her. Even Mrs.--, the mother of little Billy, began to
grow weary of charity long continued, and to feel that it was a
burdensome task to be every day or two obliged to call in or inquire
after the poor invalid. Finally, she dismissed the subject from her
mind, and left Mrs. Warburton to the tender mercies of Sarah, the
housekeeper.
From a state of deep despondence to one of hope, had Mrs. Warburton
been raised, by the timely aid afforded through the persevering
interference of the little playmate of her son. But she soon began
to perceive, after a time, that the charity was only spasmodic, and
entered into without a real consideration of her peculiar case. The
money given her was the best assistance that could have been
rendered, for with this she obtained a supply of wood, flour, meal,
potatoes, and some warm clothing for her little ones. But this would
not last always, and the multitude of little nice things sent from
this one and that, were of but little service.
The month of March, so trying to a weak and shattered constitution,
found her just well enough to venture out to seek for employment at
her old business of cigar-making. She readily obtained work, and
again sat down to earn for herself and children, the bread that
should nourish them. But she was soon made to feel keenly that her
health was not as it had been. A severe pain in the side was her
daily companion, and she had to toil on, often sick and faint, from
daylight until long after others had sought the grateful repose of
their pillows. Painfully alive to a sense of dependence, she was
ready at any time to work beyond her strength rather than to eat the
bread of charity. This kept her steadily bending over her work until
nature again became exhausted, and she was forced, from direct
debility, to suspend her labours for at least the half of every day.
As April came in, with an occasional warm day, her appetite
gradually left her, and she began to experience a loathing of food.
Weakness, headaches, and other painful warnings of nature, were the
consequences. Her earnings were now so small, that she with
difficulty procured enough of food for her children. She knew that
if she would let Mrs.--know her pressing destitution, food and
other necessaries would be supplied; but she shrank from telling her
wants. Finding, however, that her strength continued to fail, until
she was unable to sit up but for a few hours at a time, and that, in
consequence of her extreme weakness, the nausea produced by the
tobacco was so great, as to render it almost impossible for her to
work in it, she made up her mind to let her boy go in to Mrs.--,
with a request to send her some little thing that she could eat, in
hopes that something from her table might provoke an appetite.
Mrs.--was sitting at her dinner-table, which was covered with the
luxuries of the season, when little Charley came into the room and
handed in his poor mother's request.
"Please, ma'am, mother says will you be so good as to send her some
little thing that she could eat. She has no appetite, and not eatin'
makes her so weak."
"Here's some pie, Charley," struck in little Billy. "It's good, I
tell you! Eat it now; and ma, do send in Charley's mother a piece,
too: I know she'll like it."
But Billy and his mother did not agree in this. The latter thought a
little sago would be much better. So she gave Charley a paper in
which were a few spoonfuls of sago.
"Here is some sago, mother," said Charley, on his return,
"Mrs.--says it will do you good."
Now it so happened that, from a child, she had never liked sago.
There was something in it so insipid to her, that she had never felt
an inclination to more than taste it. Particularly now did her
stomach loathe it. But, even if she had felt an inclination to taste
the sago, she had not, at the time, any way to prepare it so as to
make it palatable. She did not, however, at the time, send for
anything else. She still had some flour and potatoes, and a little
change to buy milk, and on these her children fared very well.
Healthy food does not cost a great deal in this country, and Mrs.
Warburton had long before learned to husband well her resources.
On the next morning she tried to get up, but fainted away on the
floor. Her children were still asleep, and were not even awakened by
her fall. It was some time before she recovered sufficiently to
crawl upon the bed; and there she lay; almost incapable of thought
or motion, for hours. As feeble nature reacted again, and she was
able to think over her situation, she made up her mind to send in
her little boy again to Mrs.--, with an apology for not using the
sago, and request her to give her some little thing from her
table--anything at all that would be likely, as she said, "to put a
taste in her mouth," and induce an appetite for food. The child
delivered the message in the best way he knew how, but some how or
other it offended the ear of Mrs.--, who had begun to be tired of
what she was pleased to call the importunities of Mrs. Warburton;
though, in fact, she had never before even hinted that she was in
want of anything. The truth was, Sarah, the housekeeper, had heard
something from somebody, about Mrs. Warburton, and had been relating
the puerile scandal to Mrs.--, who, instead of opposing the
tattling propensity in her servant, encouraged it, by lending to her
silly stories an attentive ear. But the story was false, from
beginning to end, as are nearly all the idle rumours which are
constantly circulating from one family to another, through the
medium of servants.
"How did she do," she had just been saying to Sarah, "before I
befriended her? It is a downright imposition upon my good-nature,
and I have no notion of encouraging idleness."
"The fact is, ma'am," chimed in the maid, "these here poor people,
when you once help 'em, think you must be a'ways at it; they find it
so much easier to beg than work."
Just at this stage of conversation, the child timidly preferred the
humble and moderate request of his sick mother; a request that
should have thrilled the heart of any one possessing a single human
sympathy. But it came at the wrong moment. The evil of self-love was
active in the heart of Mrs.--, and all love of the neighbour was
for the time extinguished. She cast upon the child a look so
forbidding that the little fellow turned involuntarily to go.
"Here, Sarah," said she, in a half-angry tone, "send Mrs. Warburton
a dried herring. Perhaps that will 'put a taste in her mouth.'"
And a herring was sent!
"It's a pretty pass, indeed," said Miss Sarah, as the child closed
the door, "when beggars become choosers!"
Only half satisfied with herself, Mrs.--turned away and made no
reply. How differently did she feel on the night, when, with her own
hands, she ministered to the wants of this same suffering child of
humanity! Then her heart, though melted even to tears, felt a
bounding gladness, from the consciousness of having relieved the
suffering. Now it was heavy and sad in her bosom, and she could not
hush the whispers of an accusing conscience.
Little Charley carried home the herring, and laid it on the bed
before his sick mother. His own little heart was full, for he could
not mistake the manner of Mrs.--for kindness. Mrs. Warburton
looked at the uninviting food, and turned her head away. After
awhile, it did seem to her as if the fish would taste good to her,
and she raised herself up with an effort, and breaking off a small
piece, put it languidly to her lips. The morsel thrilled upon the
nerve of taste, and she ate the greater part of it with a relish she
had not known for many weeks.
In the mean time the heart of Mrs.--smote her so severely, when
all at once she remembered having lost her appetite after a spell of
sickness, and the difficulty with which she regained it;--how during
the day, nothing could tempt her to eat, while all night long she
would dream of rich banquets, of which she eagerly desired to
partake, but which changed to tasteless morsels, when she lifted the
inviting food to her lips. For a time she strove against her
feelings, but at last gave up, and ringing for the cook, directed
her to broil a couple of thin slices of ham very nicely, make a good
cup of tea, and a slice or two of toast. When this was ready, it was
sent in to Mrs. Warburton. It came just in time, and met the excited
appetite of the faint-hearted invalid. It was like manna in the
wilderness, and revived and refreshed her drooping frame.
From this time she gradually regained her appetite and strength; and
had the gratification of being able to earn with her own hands
enough for the support of her children.
This she continued to do until the expiration of the solitary
confinement term of her husband. How wearily passed the long, long
days and nights, as the time approached for her again to look upon
the face that had been hid from her sight for three sorrowful years!
The long absence had only excited her affection for him. Not as the
dead had she thought of him, but as of the living, and of the
suffering. Her own deep poverty, sickness, and anxious concern for
her children she counted as nothing to his lonely endurance of life.
Some weeks before the expiration of the first term of imprisonment,
she gathered together all her little store, and having sold many
heavy articles, packed the rest, and had them started for Columbus,
the capital of the state. She then took a deck-passage for herself
and children in a steamboat for Portsmouth, from which place she
determined to walk, carrying her youngest child, a little girl of
nearly three years, in her arms. I will not linger with her, nor
trace her toilsome and lonely journey through strange places,
continued without a day's intermission, until she at last came in
sight of the long-looked-for place. After the time-worn state-house,
the next building that met her eye, was the old, dark-looking
prison, in which was confined her husband. How gladly did her eyes
greet its sombre walls! It was the dwelling-place of one, for whom,
in all his wanderings, her heart retained its warm emotions of love.
Suddenly, like a parching wind of the desert, came upon her the
thought that he might be dead. For three long years she had not been
permitted to receive tidings from him, and who could tell, if in
that time, the wing of death had not o'ershadowed him? Trembling,
weary, and sick at heart, she made her way first to the prison-gate,
and there, to her unspeakable joy, she learned that he still lived.
For many nights previous to the day on which permission would be
granted her to see him, sleep had parted from her eyelids; and when
the time did come, she was in a high state of mental excitement.
Morning slowly dawned upon her anxious eyes, but seemed as if it
would never give place to the broad daylight. At last the sun came
slowly up from his bright chambers in the east. It was the day on
which she should again see her husband; the long-looked-for, the
long-hoped-for. Tremblingly she stole out, ere the day was an hour
old, and ran, not walked, to the gloomy dwelling-place of her
husband.
For several days previous she had not been able to keep away from
the prison, and the keeper, who knew her errand, had become much
interested in her case. He received her kindly, and made instant
preparation for the desired interview.
For three years Warburton had not heard the music of a human voice.
Far away from the sight or sound of his fellow-prisoners, he had
dwelt alone, visited only by the mute keeper who had brought his
daily food, or otherwise ministered to his wants. To his earnest and
oft-repeated inquiries if nothing was known of his wife and
children, for whose welfare a yearning anxiety had sprung up in his
breast, he was answered only by a gloomy silence. He did not know,
even on the morning of his release from solitary confinement, that
the all-enduring companion of his better days had come to cheer his
anxious eyes with her presence. Soon after daylight of this morning
the door of his cell turned heavily on its hinges, and he was
brought out among his fellows, and heard again the sweetest music
that had ever fallen upon his ear, the music of the human voice. A
stronger thrill of pleasure had never passed through his frame. He
felt as though he could remain thus shut out from the rest of the
world for ever, so that he could see and talk with his fellow-men.
He did not then think of the keen delight that awaited him, for in
the first impulse of selfish gratification he had forgotten the
being who loved him better than life.
An hour had not passed when he was again called for. The door of a
private apartment in the keeper's house was thrown open, and he
entered alone. There was but one being present: a pale, haggard
woman, poorly clad, who tottered towards him with extended arms. At
that moment both hearts were too full, and their lips were sealed in
silence. But oh! how eagerly did each bind the other in a long, long
embrace! It seemed as if their arms would never be unlocked. For one
hour were they left, thus alone. But how were years crowded into
that hour; years of endurance--terrible endurance!
It seemed scarcely one-tenth of that short time, when Mrs. Warburton
was summoned away, but with the kind permission to visit her husband
at the same hour every day. Slowly she passed beneath the ponderous
gate, and still more slowly moved away, thinking how long it would
be before another day had passed, bringing another blessed
interview.
The case of Warburton and his faithful wife soon came to the ears of
the governor, and he having expressed considerable sympathy for
them, the fact was soon made known to Mrs. Warburton, who was
recommended to petition him in person for a remission of the
sentence. The hint was no sooner given than acted upon, and after a
delay of several months of hope and fear, to the joy of her heart,
she found her husband at liberty.
In some of his former business or gambling transactions he had
become possessed of a clear title to three hundred acres of land,
upon which was a log-cabin, situated about thirty miles eastward
from the capital of the state, and nearly upon the national road.
Searching among his papers, still preserved by his wife, he found
the deed, and as nothing better offered, he started with his family
and but ten dollars, to begin the world anew as a backwoods farmer.
The few articles of furniture which his wife had preserved, served
to render the dilapidated cabin, in which was not a single pane of
glass, sash, or shutter, barely comfortable. It was early in the
spring when they re-moved, and though the right time for planting
corn and the ordinary table vegetables, yet it would be months
before they would be fit to use. In the mean time, a subsistence
must be had. The quickest way to obtain food Warburton found in the
use of his rifle, for wild turkeys and deer abounded in the forest.
He also managed to take a few dozen turkeys now and then to a
neighbouring town, and dispose of them for corn-meal, flour, and
groceries. In about a month he was enabled to sell one hundred acres
of his land for three hundred dollars, one hundred in money, and the
balance in necessary things for stocking a farm. He was now fairly
started again, with a cow, a horse, and all requisite agricultural
implements.
Mrs. Warburton did not feel satisfied in her own mind that this
sudden relief from daily pressing want would be a real benefit to
them. She had learned to suspect the reformation which was effected
by the force of external circumstances, while no salutary change in
the will was going on. For some time, however, she had every reason
to be encouraged. Her husband was industrious, and careful to make
the best he possibly could out of his farm, and was kind and
attentive to her and his children. Their garden, as the summer wore
away, presented a rich supply of vegetables, and their corn and
potatoes in the fall yielded enough for their use during the winter,
besides several bushels for sale.
The winter, however, did not pass away without several indications
on the part of Warburton of a disposition to indulge in the
pleasures of the bottle. There had been, in the course of the
summer, a tavern erected, about a mile from his dwelling, on the
national road; and here, during the dull winter months, he too
frequently resorted, to pass away the hours, with such persons as
are usually to be found at these haunts of idleness.
The income of this house, as a place of accommodation for
travellers, was very small, for within four miles of it stood a
tavern and stage-house, kept in a style that had made it known to
the travelling public. It was simply a receptacle for the odd change
of the neighbours, at times when they had an hour or two to spare
from business. Gradually, its business increased, and as gradually
the farms of one or two individuals in the neighbourhood, who were,
more frequently than others, to be found at the tavern, evinced a
corresponding decrease in their flourishing condition. Fences that
never wanted a panel were now broken in many places; and barns that
never admitted a drop of rain, now leaked at a hundred pores. Once,
there was an air of cheerfulness and plenty around their dwellings;
now, wives and children looked, the former troubled and broken in
spirits, the latter dirty and neglected. Where once reigned peace
and quietness, existed wrangling and strife.
During the succeeding farming season, Warburton gave considerable
attention--cultivating his ground, which in the fall yielded him an
abundant return. Still, during the summer, he visited the "White
Hall Tavern" too frequently, and was too often under the bewildering
and exciting influence of liquor. The next winter tended greatly to
complete the work of dissipation, which had been commenced a year
before. Frequently he would come home so much intoxicated as to be
lost to all reason. At such times he was not the stupid,
good-natured, drunken fool that is often met with; he was then a
cruel, unreasonable and exacting tyrant. His poor wife and children
did not only suffer from his wordy ill temper, but had to endure in
silence his blows, and often tremble even for their lives. When
sober, an indistinct remembrance of his cruelties and other bad
conduct, instead of softening his feelings towards his family, made
him moodily silent, or cross and snappish if a word were said to
him.
The constant and almost daily drain of small change for liquor, had
nearly exhausted all the money in the house long before the winter
was over. The accommodating landlord seemed to discover, as by
instinct, this condition of things, and encouraged Warburton to run
up a score. He well knew that at any time it was easy to get the
payment out of a man who had a good farm, well stocked. Not so much
for the money to be made at the business, as for the purpose of
attracting more persons to his tavern, the landlord of the "White
Hall" kept a small store. At this store, Warburton, long before the
winter was over, had also made a pretty large bill. As if to atone
for his unkindness to, and neglect of his family, he would rarely
return from his voluntary visits at the tavern, without bringing
home something. A few pounds of sugar to-day, some cheese or fish
to-morrow, or some dried fruit on the day after. The excuse, that
such and such a thing was wanted, was often made to get away to the
public house, and thus scarcely a day passed without a dollar or two
being entered against him on the books of the smiling landlord.
When the spring opened, and his bill was made out, much to his
surprise, he found his account to be one hundred and fifty dollars!
After some two or three weeks' pondering on the matter, during which
time he was cross and sulky at home, two fine cows and one of his
best horses were quietly transferred from his pasture to the more
capacious one of the landlord of the "White Hall;" and thus his
account was squared with Boniface.
The discouragement consequent upon such a reduction of his stock,
tended to make him less industrious and less pleasant. He was
constantly grumbling about his expensive family, and could not
afford to send his two oldest children to a school just opened in
the neighbourhood, although the master offered to take them both for
five dollars a quarter. His wife, he said, could teach them at home.
And in this she was not neglectful, as far as her time allowed.
How rarely does the drunkard, when once fairly started, stop in his
downward course! How similar is the history of each one! Neglect of
business--neglect of family--confirmed idleness--abuse of
family--waste of property--and finally, abject poverty.
In less than three years from the day on which he breathed the air
again as a free man--free, through the untiring assiduity of his
neglected but faithful wife, he struck her to the ground, and
unregardful of all the ties of nature, left her alone with her
children, in the wilds of the west, after having made over house and
farm to the land lord of the "White Hall," for fifty dollars and his
bill at the bar.
Day after day did his poor wife wait and look for him to return,
until even hope failed, and she at last, with a heavy heart,
commenced the task of recalling her own energies in aid of the
little ones around her.
But she soon found her condition to be far worse than she had
imagined. But a few days passed after her husband had left her
before the hard-hearted tavern-keeper came, and removed everything
but the house in which she lived from off the place, and then gave
her notice that she must also remove, and in three weeks, as he had
rented the farm to a man who wished to take immediate possession.
Hope, the kind and ever attendant angel of the distressed, for more
than a week seemed ready to depart; but at the end of that time, a
faint desire to return to her native city began to grow into a
resolution, and by the time a second week had passed away, she had
fully resolved to set out upon the journey.
But she had only twenty dollars, after disposing of the few things
their rapacious creditor had left them, and with this she had to go
a journey of nearly five hundred miles, with three children, the
oldest about twelve years of age. But when once her mind is made up,
there are few things a resolute mother will not undertake for her
children.
By persevering in her applications, day after day, to the wagoners
on the national road, she at length so far prevailed on one of them
as to let her and her children ride as far as Zanesville, for the
trifle of a dollar or two, in his wagon.
In the true spirit of success, she looked only at the present
difficulty, reserving thought and attention for all succeeding
difficulties, whenever they might come. In this spirit she cut
herself loose from her place in the west, and started for--utterly
unable to say how she should ever reach the desired spot.
For the first day or two, the wagoner held no conversation with her;
he had been unable to resist the promptings of his kind feelings in
favour of one who had asked him for aid, although he had much rather
not have given her a place in his wagon. By degrees, however, his
temper changed, and he occasionally asked a question, or made a
passing remark; and by the time he had reached Zanesville, he had
become so interested in her case, that he refused to take the
stipulated price, and kindly offered to carry her as far as
Wheeling, and to--, if he found it to his interest to go there.
The way thus providentially opened for her, few obstacles remained,
and in the course of a few weeks she found herself again in the home
of her childhood, the dear spot that had lived in her memory, green
and inviting, for years.
But how changed was the poor sufferer! But a very few dollars of her
money was left. The fatigue of travel. ling so long and in so
uncomfortable a manner, had gradually shaken the props of a feeble
body; and by the time she looked again upon the old, familiar
places, her form was drooping with sickness.
Slowly she descended from the wagon, received her children, one by
one, from the hands of the wagoner, thanked him with a tearful look,
and tottered away. But where could she go? She had neither home, nor
money, nor friends--was sick and faint. Years before, she had
tripped lightly along the very street through which she now dragged
her weary limbs. She even passed by the same house, and heard the
light laughter of thoughtless voices, from the same window from
which she had once looked forth in earlier years, a joyful and
light-hearted creature. How familiar did that dear spot seem! but
how agonizing the contrast that forced itself upon her! Little did
the merry maiden who looked out upon the pale mother, with drooping
form and soiled garments, who gazed up so earnestly towards her,
imagine, that but a few years before, that poor creature looked
forth from that same window, a glad-hearted girl.
Scarcely able to act or decide rationally, for her head ached
intensely, and she was burning with fever, Mrs. Warburton wandered
about the streets with her three children, one a boy about twelve
years old, the other a little girl about nine, and the third, a
little one tottering by her side, scarce two years old. All at once,
as she turned her steps into--street, her eye caught sight of the
tall poplars that indicated the home of the homeless. "I have no
home but this," she murmured to herself, and turned her steps
instinctively towards the dark mass of buildings that stood near the
present intersection of--and--streets.
"Where is your permit?" said the keeper, as she falteringly asked
for admission.
"I have none," was the faint reply.
"We cannot take you, unless you bring a permit from one of the
commissioners."
"I don't know any commissioner."
"Where are you from?"
"I have just come to town from the west, and am too sick to do
anything. I feel faint, and unable to go farther. Can you not admit
me, and let application be made to the commissioners for me?"
The appearance of Mrs. Warburton too plainly indicated her sick
condition, and the keeper thought it best to admit her for the
present. A meeting of the commissioners was held on the same
afternoon, and a formal admission given.
The first indication that Mrs. W. had, that she was no longer at
liberty to choose or think for herself, was the entire separation of
her children from her. True, she was soon too ill to attend to them,
but that would have made no difference. After a dangerous illness of
many weeks, during most of which time she was insensible to
everything around her, she was again able to droop about a little.
Her first questions, after the healthy reaction of body and mind,
were about her children; her first request, to see them. But this
was denied. "They are doing well enough," was all the answer she
could get.
"But cannot I see Emma, my little one? Do let me see her!"
"It is contrary to the rules of the institution. You cannot see her
now."
"When can I see her?"
"I don't know,"--and the nurse of the sick woman left her and went
to attend somewhere else, utterly insensible to the keen agony of
the mother's heart. Was she not a pauper? What right had she to
human feelings? But a mother's love is not to be chained down to
rules, or circumscribed by the narrow policy of chartered
expediency. As Mrs. Warburton slowly gained strength, a quicker
perception of her situation grew upon her, and she soon determined
to know all about her children. In vain had she asked to see them;
but each denial only increased the desire, and confirmed her
resolutions to see them and know all about them.
One day, when she could walk about a little, a day on which she knew
the board of commissioners were in session, she watched her
opportunity, and when the nurse was attending in another part of the
room, stole quietly out, and soon made her way to the commissioners'
room.
"Gentlemen, a mother asks your indulgence," was her appeal, as the
keeper checked her entrance.
"Let her enter, Mr.--," said one of them.
"What is your wish, good woman?" continued the first speaker.
"I want to see my children."
Her voice was so low and mournful, and her pale face, which still
retained many traces of former beauty, expressed so strongly her
maternal anxiety, that the hearts of all were touched.
They looked at each other for a few moments, and after some
whispered words, directed that she should be allowed to see her
children for half an hour each day.
The keeper now called their attention to certain of their
proceedings, some weeks past, and they found that places had been
obtained for two of them, the oldest boy, and the little girl,
scarce ten years old.
"We have obtained good places for two of your children, madam; the
other, aged two years, you can have under your own care, while
here."
"And all without allowing me one word, as to who should take them,
or where they should go! My poor little Mary, what can you do as a
servant?"
"They are well provided for, madam. You can now retire."
Mrs. Warburton did retire, and with a bleeding heart. Her little
Emma was restored to her, and was constantly by her side. She had
been two months in the alms-house, when she was strong enough to
work, and by a rule of he place, she had to work two months, to pay
for her keeping while sick, before she would be allowed to go out,
and maintain herself.
Slowly and heavily passed the hours for two weary months, when she
presented herself for a release from imprisonment.
"Where can I find my children?" she asked of the keeper, as she was
about to leave.
"It is against the rule to give any such information in regard to
pauper children. And in this particular instance, it was the request
of both persons taking your children, that you should not be told
where they were, as they wished to raise them without being troubled
by foreign influence."
The mother attempted no remonstrance, but turned away, and homeless,
and almost penniless, leading her little one by the hand, again
entered the city where her happiest years had been spent.
As she passed down a street, she saw on the door of an old brick
house, the words "A room to let." She made application, and engaged
it, at two dollars a month. A pine table, and an old chair, she
bought at a second-hand furniture store for a dollar; and with the
other dollar she had left, the pittance saved from the twenty
dollars she had when she left Ohio, she bought some bread, dried
meat, milk, &c. She had no bed, and was for some time compelled to
sleep with her child on the hard floor.
The art of making cigars, which she had learned years before, and
which had more than once stood between her and want, was again
brought into use. She applied at a tobacconist's, and obtained work.
Giving all diligence, day and night, she was able to make five or
six dollars every week, with which, in a short time, she gathered a
few comfortable things about her, among which was a bed.
Two months had passed since she left the alms-house, and still she
could gain no tidings of her children. Daily, for an hour or two,
had she made search for them, but in the only way she could devise,
that of wandering about the streets, in hopes of finding them out on
some errand. As the winter drew on, she became more and more anxious
and concerned. If her little girl, who was always a delicate child,
should be in unkind hands, she sickened at heart to think how much
she would suffer. Night after night would she dream of the dear
child; and always saw her in some condition of extreme hardship.
One night she thought she saw little Mary sitting on the curb-stone.
She went up to her, and dreaming that it was very cold, found her
bare-foot, thinly clad, and almost perishing. The child threw her
little arms, naked and icy cold about her neck, and as her
well-known voice sounded in her ears, she awoke.
She slept no more through that night, and soon after breakfast,
started out, being unable, through the uneasiness of her mind, to
work. Without questioning the reason why, she naturally wandered in
the direction indicated in her dream. When near the place, she was
startled by the piercing screams of a child that seemed in great
agony, and there was entreaty and supplication mingled in the tones.
The voice was like the voice of her own child. She knew it was her
own child; a mother's ear is never deceived. Darting towards the
spot, she found a bucket of hot water spilled upon the pavement,
from which the vapour was rising in a cloud, and glancing her eye
down the alley, she saw her little one half-dragged, half-carried,
by the arm, by a tall, masculine woman, who seemed in a violent
rage. Following like the wind, she reached the dwelling of the
virago as she entered and dashed the child upon the floor. Just as
Mrs. Warburton came up, and was lifting it, the woman had obtained a
stout cow-hide, and was turning to lacerate the back of the little
one, as she had often done before, her face red and expressing the
most wicked passions.
At once Mrs. Warburton felt that only in retreat was their safety,
and catching up the child in her arms, she darted out as quickly as
she had entered. Not more swiftly, however, did she go, than
followed the enraged woman to whom this child of nine years old had
been bound to do the work of a woman. Finding herself gained upon by
the person in pursuit, she looked about for a place of retreat, and
seeing "Magistrate's Office" on a sign, she darted into that lower
court of justice. Here she was safe from molestation, until some
decision was made in the case, by those deputed to act. A crowd soon
gathered about, attracted by the strange sight of a woman flying
with a child in her arms, and another in hot pursuit. The
magistrate, who was a humane man, and held his office in a part of
his dwelling, instinctively perceived that the mother and her child
needed kindness and consideration, and had them, after examination,
removed back into his dwelling, and placed under the care of his
wife, while he entered more fully into the merits of the case.
When Mrs. Warburton was sufficiently at ease to examine her child,
she found her a pitiable object indeed. Her face, neck, and body
were dreadfully scalded, and her back was in scars and welts all
over, and in some places with the skin broken and festering. It
appeared, from the statement of the child, that the woman she lived
with had placed on her head a bucket of scalding water for her to
carry to a store, which she was going to scrub out. The heavy weight
on her head caused her to lose her balance and fall, when the whole
contents of the bucket were spilled over her face and neck, and
penetrated through her clothes to the skin, in all directions.
Of course, she was suffering the most excruciating pain. Medical aid
was called in by the magistrate, and every attention extended to the
little sufferer, who seemed to forget her pain in the consciousness
of her mother's presence. The inhuman wretch who had thus brutally
maltreated a mere child, enraged to a state of insanity in finding
herself thwarted in obtaining the child, made an appeal to the city
court, then in session, and had all the parties present. It needed
but this to give Mrs. W. uncontrolled possession of little Mary. The
condition in which the court found the child, added to the touching
story of her mother, caused an instant cancelling of the indenture
by which the unfeeling woman claimed possession of her.
In a few days after, Mrs. Warburton found her boy, who, much to her
satisfaction, had a good place, with which he was pleased, and was
learning a good trade. She was now fairly started again, and as her
spirits revived, her health became much improved. Month after month
passed away, and brought with it new sources of comfort, new causes
for satisfaction. Of her husband, she now thought with no affection.
It is true, earlier feelings would sometimes return, but with no
force, and after moving the waters of her quiet spirit for a moment,
would tremble into rest.
When a man once extinguishes his own self-respect, he is a burden to
society. But when a husband and father descends so low, he becomes a
curse to his family. After abusing them, and making their condition
so wretched that even he cannot share it, he will forsake the wife
of his bosom and the children of his early love, and leave them to
the tender mercies of strangers. But let the mother gather her
little ones around her, and by toiling early and late, make their
condition comfortable, and the brutalized wretch will return and
consume the food of his children, and abuse them if they complain.
A year had passed away, when early one evening in the fall of the
year, a man pushed open the door of the room she occupied, and with
a "well Julia," took a chair, and made himself at home without
further ceremony. Though dirty and ragged, with a beard of a week's
growth, and half drunk, Mrs. Warburton could not mistake the form of
her wretched husband.
"O, husband! can this be you?"
"Yes, Julia, this is me. I've come back at last. I've tried hard to
make something for you and the children, but it is no use, fate is
against me; so here I am again, poor as ever. But give me something
to eat, for I'm hungry as a badger."
Six years had passed away since Warburton had returned, and the
wretchedness which had been with him in his absence, he brought as
an abiding guest to the dwelling of his wife. During that time, she
had endured sickness, hunger, abuse, and been nigh unto death; but
through it all she had come with a heart still unsubdued, though
almost broken. For her children's sakes, two more of whom had been
added in that time, she had stood up and breasted the storm.
At last, her miserable husband, sunk in the lowest depths of
drunkenness and degradation, died, as he had lived. It was the dawn
of a brighter day for Mrs. Warburton when the spirit of her husband
took its flight to the world of spirits. Her son was nearly free
from his trade, and her oldest girl could assist her greatly in the
house, as well as by earning something for their support.
Content and health having taken up their abode with her, we will
leave her to fill up her allotted space in life unobtrusively and
peacefully. The story of Mrs. Warburton has been introduced as
another illustration of the ill effects which so often arise from
the want of watchfulness on the part of parents, in regard to the
characters of the young men who are allowed to visit and play upon
the affections of their daughters. It also shows how unconquerable
is a mother's love. Here a weak, foolish girl, by strong trial,
becomes a woman with a strength of mind that nothing can subdue,
and, as a mother, overcomes difficulties from which most men would
shrink in despair.
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